


Lucifer Falling

by Kitty Fisher (kittyfisher)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 23:31:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 67,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8347045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyfisher/pseuds/Kitty%20Fisher
Summary: Written a long time ago...  Methos walks a fine line between his past and his possible future with Duncan.





	

LUCIFER FALLING  
by Kitty Fisher

 

Morning was never the best part of Joe Dawson's day; especially mornings he had to be at work before the bar was even open. Paperwork. Jesus, it was a pain. Grimacing to himself, he pushed the stack of papers away, wondering why it all took so long, and why it was all so incredibly boring. What he needed was another coffee. Something to keep alert enough to actually get some more done. He reached for his cane and slowly stood up, sighing, then picked up his mug.

Turning, he stopped in his tracks, as the street door opened, streaking daylight into the shadows. If he felt surprise, or anything else, nothing showed on his patient face. He merely straightened, watching calmly as the man threaded his way slowly through the tables, his long black coat wrapped tight around his body, as if he was cold to the bone.

Joe nodded once as he approached, waiting until he was close before he spoke. "You survived then."

Methos, Immortal and some–time Watcher, seemed to consider blankly, then he simply nodded.

"Macleod isn't with you?"

Another slight head movement, this time accompanied by a soft, "No."

"But it all worked out then?" It was a question, one that wouldn't have to be asked with such uncertainty were it not for the misery clear in his friend.

Methos took a sharp breath, then sighed, a weak smile ghosting around his mouth. "You could say that."

"Good. Want a coffee?"

Another nod.

Joe pushed past Methos and went over to the coffee maker behind the bar. He put two mugs on the counter, then reaching for a jug, poured, whilst covertly examining the subdued figure before him. He was frowning. "Adam, when the hell did you last eat? You look thin as my stick!"

"I'm all right, Joe." On the customer side of the bar, Methos gave a small shake of his head. Then he looked down, staring hard at his fingers where they were linked together, resting on the counter. "I'm just fine."

"Yeah!" Joe gave a wry snort, then asked doubtfully, "and the plan really worked?"

"Yes." Impatience there.

"And Mac understands?"

Methos blinked, his face pallid in the artificial light. "No, I don't think you could really say that." Finally, he lifted his head, though his eyes were closed for a long moment. Then, they opened and he met Joe's steady, sympathetic gaze. "In fact, I think he still despises me." He considered, then gave an awkward shrug. "Maybe he even despises me more than he did, I don't know."

"He always was a fool."

"No, Joe. That he isn't."

Joe laughed, as if at a bad joke. "Tell me another one! I tried to explain a few facts of life to him..."

"You didn't tell him what I was planning?" Methos stopped abruptly, visibly taking control of the momentary panic. "No, you couldn't have done. He'd have said something."

"Adam, come on now, you're not making sense. I did as you asked, I didn't give your scheme away. I did defend you though, I couldn't have him listening to Cassandra, could I!"

"No." He closed his eyes again, his mouth twisting bitterly.

"Adam, for Christ's sake, what is all this...you're acting as if someone died."

"Three people died, Joe." Methos answered softly. "One I despised, and have done for three thousand years, one I liked and yet who I killed myself, and one...well..." He grimaced.

"So Mac killed Kronos."

"He did."

"Even though he didn't know the truth about you and Kronos?"

Methos shook his head slowly. He leant heavily against the bar, the knuckles of his hands white where they gripped together.

"Not about back all those years ago?" Joe took the slight movement for a negative. "Or here?"

"I didn't tell him! What do you think I'm made of?" Methos blinked, the skin around his eyes pinching. "But, since he took Kronos' quickening, I should think he knows everything..." his husky voice tailed off.

"What has he said?"

"Nothing."

Joe shrugged. "Well then!"

"He didn't need to."

"Come on, you only have to explain things.."

"Oh, I can see that!" Methos straightened, all hauteur and pain.

"Why not — he understands that sometimes you have to do more than you want, more than..."

"No! I'm not talking to him, of all people, about this. And even if I did, as he knows everything... Bloody hell! No way." His hands parted, then slammed back down on the bar.

Joe softened his voice, sympathy wasted as Methos still wasn't meeting his eyes. "Tell me, what's he said?"

"He didn't need to say anything. He just knew..."

"Did you stay and talk to him at all?"

"No really. I tried, but every time I looked at him I remembered what he knew about..." Methos blinked, utterly distraught, then tried again, "he knows..." With a soft sound of utter distress he broke off, words strangling in his throat. He backed away, incoherent, a hand over his mouth, then suddenly turned on his heel and headed with long strides for the wash–room.

Joe watched him disappear through the swing–door, and shook his head, knowing for certain he was glad to be mortal. One lifetime was enough, how any of them dealt with the added weight of ten or a hundred of the same was a mystery. That this one was still sane...well, he wouldn't have laid money on his own state of mind after so long. With a sigh he unhooked his stick and, with a nod to an employee to take over behind the bar, slowly walking after his friend.

He was in time to hear the cistern flush. Leaning against the wall, propped on his stick, he waited. After a while a forlorn Methos emerged from one of the cubicles and headed for a sink, studiously ignoring the mirror that hung on the wall.

Joe watched him, then asked gruffly, "Are you going to tell me about it?"

Methos was splashing cold water onto his face. He rinsed out his mouth, spat. Then again. Finally he looked up, his eyes bloodshot, his face grey, thousands of years shadowed in his eyes. "No."

"Is it that you loved Kronos?"

"You do like to cut to the chase, don't you?"

"Did you?"

Methos shuddered once, then answered softly. "Once, maybe, though that was in another country; besides, the person I was then is dead."

"It was certainly a hell of a long time ago!"

"Indeed."

He shrugged again, leaving Joe unsure if he was just being humoured. Joe poked at a loose wall–tile with his stick. "Well, did Kronos love you?"

Methos sighed, and answered, his voice very weary, very patient. "I thought I said I didn't want to talk about this?"

"And I thought I'd just ignore you."

After a moment, Methos gave a grudging smile, though it lasted only a second. Then he answered gravely, his eyes averted. "I don't know. Probably not. Though he cared for me, for a while, in his own peculiarly possessive way."

"He can't have been all that pleased to find you so changed. What did he do?"

"You don't want to know..."

Joe waited a beat, the images his head conjured making him understand the despair in his friend. Very quietly he asked, "What did he make you do?"

Methos' face grew pinched, the bones almost carving through the skin. "When, Joe?" His voice was bitter edged. "Back in the barbaric mists of time, or here in civilization?"

Joe ignored the bitter irony. "Either, both..."

"Hell!" He looked as if he was going to be ill again, but he steadied, holding on hard to the sink. "Joe, I..."

Joe watched the mirrored despair, seeing a young man at the limits of his strength, feeling so much older, like a father, which was crazy. A father whose son had been abused, yet whose anger couldn't be allowed to show. He shook his head. "Come on, lets get out of here. My office is out back, you need something to eat."

"No thanks."

"You need something or you'll fall over."

"I'll survive."

"Yeah, you might. It'll be less painful with food though — I hear starvation's a nasty way to go. How did you get here?"

"Air France."

"I didn't think you walked!" Joe pulled the door open, held it open, though Methos tutted and with weak courtesy ushered him through first. "Didn't they feed you?"

"I was ill most of the way — told them I'd eaten some bad bouillabaisse. I won't be welcomed with open arms by that cabin crew again."

"Then you need something, come on."

Joe led the way through the bar, taped music flowing low and melancholy around them. The office was tucked just at the back of the stage. Spartan and efficient it contained a desk, a couple of chairs and a battered old couch. "Make yourself at home, I'll organise some food."

"Thanks." Methos eased himself down into the soft arm–chair and settled back, his eyes closing almost immediately.

Joe watched his friend, and let himself be glad that Methos had survived. He looked very young, very worn. It had been an exacting month; whatever Kronos had done, it couldn't have been easy, or kind. He wondered what it would be like, knowing that Macleod knew all of that, every nuance of that sick bastard's memory there for Mac to inspect and judge. Macleod the moralist. Shit. Facing him, knowing all that, couldn't have been easy either.

"You going to watch me until I fall asleep?"

Joe started at the dry question. "No. What about some lunch, soup or something?"

"No." Methos opened his eyes long enough to grimace, then apologetically half–smile. "But thanks for the thought."

"What about a drink then?"

"Tea would be nice." Methos' voice was slurring.

"Tea?"

"Mmm."

Joe stayed where he was for a little while longer, watching as Methos slid into sleep. Methos would be fine, physically, after enough rest, that much was more than certain. Mentally? Well, Joe had known him for a long time, yet he had never seen him this despondent, this disturbed out of his usual equilibrium. Methos the survivor, crumbling because one of his kind didn't have the grace to see that need often outweighed morality.

Macleod was an idiot.

Joe sighed. Sorting this mess out would take more than a cup of tea — which was the only thing Methos had asked for. He straightened slowly, bones aching, both real and imaginary. Tea. Well, there had to be some around somewhere.

Joe let himself out of the office, closing the door quietly. He hesitated there, leaning his weight on the dark corridor's wall. It was a conundrum, trying to work out what to do. His immediate reaction was to call Macleod, and trust the two Immortals to work it all out between them. After all, he and Macleod had spoken hurriedly only the day before, and Mac had asked then if Methos was around. Joe had been too happy knowing that both his friends were still alive to question why Duncan thought Methos had left France. And, what with Mac being in such a hurry to get off the phone, Joe had hardly thought any further. Life had taken over his thoughts until the moment Methos had walked into the bar looking shadowed by demons. Now, with the enlightening benefit of hindsight, it was possible to read all sorts of meaning into that quick conversation; that enquiry. For that was what it had really been — Mac trying to find Methos.

A call now wouldn't hurt, surely? Was it even possible to make the situation worse? Probably not, though Methos would most likely leave if he knew what Joe was doing.

Unless by coming here he'd actually wanted Macleod to catch up with him. There was a possibility. He was devious enough, both consciously and subconsciously. Joe grinned to himself. Devious enough when he was capable of thought. At the minute, he was asleep, so deeply he was almost unconscious, and it looked as if he hadn't been thinking straight since the death of the other horsemen. So maybe it was time to call Macleod, find out what he had to say about all of this. Maybe even tell him about the visitor, if the vibes were right.

He went slowly back out into the bar, called over one of the staff who was wiping off a table, readying the bar for morning opening. "Pete, have we got any tea around?"

"I'll look some out for you — you want me to make it now?

"No. Just check we've got any, if not, go round to the store and buy some, will you?."

"Sure, what sort?"

Joe looked blank.

"You know, fruit, or spice, or..." Pete ran out of alternatives. "Whatever."

"Oh, just plain tea."

"Sure."

"Thanks. Everything going all right out here?"

"No problems so far." Pete grinned, walking off to serve a customer as Joe laughed. There were no certainties in this trade, that was for sure. There was never any telling how many people would decide to visit the bar at any given time, never any guarantee that there wouldn't be trouble. Not that there often was, but anywhere drink was served had a share of drunken fools and volatile arguments. People were often just as difficult as Immortals.

As his office was in use, Joe used the phone tucked at the side of the bar. He settled on a high stool and dialled. It was always faintly disconcerting that a call to Paris was no more difficult to place than one to New Jersey — and sometimes was easier. Joe punched in the numbers, waited for a few rings, then the familiar voice answered, sounding sleepy. Joe didn't bother to announce himself. "Did I wake you?"

"No, Joe, I'm always awake at..." there was the sound of a watch being fumbled for. "...three in the morning! What's happened?"

"Calm down, everything's fine."

"What then, did you forget the time difference?"

"No..."

"Feel like maybe I needed an early morning wake–up call instead of my beauty sleep?"

"Shut up, Mac." Joe was almost laughing. "You know you don't need any beauty sleep — and yeah, maybe I did forget the time."

"I knew it."

"Are you alone?"

"Yes." There was surprise in the answer. "Why?"

"Just curious."

"Oh, I get it, you're checking up on my sex–life now. Very sweet of you, Joe, but tonight I'm all alone."

There was warmth and amusement there, and maybe a hint of effort behind the apparent relaxation, as if it was all somehow an effort. Dawson paused, wanting to clear his throat nervously, his own attempt at normal conversation drying on his lips. He coughed and asked, "So, how's things?"

"You ring me up in the middle of the night to catch up? Joe..."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. Everything is...fine."

"Any more about the Horsemen?"

Silence. Then — "I told you, three of them are dead."

"Did you kill Kronos?"

"Yeah."

"What about Methos?"

"He's alive, I told you that as well." Duncan paused, the silence broken only by satellite echoes on the line. "That's about all there is."

"You and Methos, did you fight?"

"No."

Joe heard the surprise. "Mac, I didn't mean with swords!"

"No, we didn't as much as argue over who paid a restaurant tab."

"Yet he just didn't stick around?"

"Mmm."

"Without having talked?"

"What is this, Joe? The Spanish Inquisition?"

"Maybe, though it is real hard to use red–hot pincers over the phone." Joe waited for the snort of laughter, then asked the question this had all led up to, "Would you want to talk to him?"

"Yes. Though, as I don't know where he is, that might be a bit difficult. Unless you've heard something?"

The question was simple, yet Joe was sure he could hear something close to desperation under the words. He chewed his lip for a second, then took a gamble, trusting his own intuition. "Mac, Methos is here."

"What! But, I rang yesterday, and you hadn't seen him..."

"I hadn't then. He walked in an hour or so back — looking like death warmed up."

"Jesus! Like death... Don't tell him that, he might not react too well."

"Because of what he was?"

Silence. Then Duncan asked slightly breathlessly, "You know about all that?"

"Some of it. I know about the Horsemen, and some other stuff that happened; Methos told me a while back. He says you know even more." Joe took a deep breath and considered crossing his fingers. "Mac, he thinks you despise him."

"Despise... He said that?"

"Yeah. He started to talk about it, about you and Kronos, then he threw up."

"Damn..."

"Do you despise him, Mac?"

"No."

"Why didn't you tell him."

I didn't get a chance! We buried the bodies then he was gone, disappeared before I really had a chance to say anything."

"He's here, Mac."

A long pause, then, "Is that an invitation from him?"

"No, from me. And he won't be here for long, I can tell you that. I reckon he's only stopping off to say goodbye. As it is, if he realises I've told you, he'll be off as fast as he can."

"I'll be there. Can you keep him until tonight? I'll be in then if I can, otherwise it'll be the morning."

"Keeping him might be easier said than done, but I'll do what I can."

"Thanks, Joe. Really."

"Yeah, yeah!" Joe growled at the phone. "Just get here, or there might be nothing to visit other than me!"

His only answer was the off–key tone of a disconnected line.

Joe gently replaced the handset in its cradle and had a hollow pang of doubt. Well, it was done, so that was that. Whether it was right or wrong, only time would tell, but at least Macleod had seemed positive. In fact he had been actively eager.

It could all have been much worse, the Highlander could have simply told him to call back when Methos was gone. Joe sighed to himself, unsure why he felt it was so important that the two came together and resolved their differences. Though the differences appeared to be mainly on Methos side, otherwise why would Mac be so eager to get here?

Unless it was for Methos' head.

Joe frowned as the thought skittered into his mind, then he immediately dismissed the idea as ridiculous. If Macleod had any agenda for Methos, death didn't seem to appear on it, or he would have settled the matter months ago.

Unless Kronos had changed all that.

Joe let that one wander around in his thoughts for a bit, then shook his head, sure he was over–complicating the issue. He called himself ten different kinds of fool, and manoeuvred himself off the stool. It was getting busy and there were things to prepare for the evening performance. He started making lists, though he did make a mental note to be sure that Methos was awake and alert when Macleod finally did turn up.

* * * * *

Hours later, after query upon query and scarcely a moment to himself, Joe decided enough was enough and left his staff to it. They were efficient enough, and besides, if some crisis did come up, it wasn't as if he was going to be far away.

Relying on Pete's good graces, he rustled up a tray of food, complete with tea and, with the same amiable young man as porter, finally went back to the office. He presumed Methos was still asleep, he hadn't emerged all afternoon. The door opened silently as he turned the handle, and he peered around it. Methos was curled deep into the big arm–chair, his coat wrapped about him.

Joe, as quiet as he could, walked inside and gestured for Pete to leave the tray on the desk. He waved his thanks and ignoring the curious looks cast at his visitor, closed the door as his employee left.

Methos was really sleeping like the dead. Not even when Joe dropped his stick did he wake, or even twitch. Though from what he knew of his friend, if another Immortal came within the range of whatever it was they used for radar, he would soon rouse.

Joe awkwardly picked his stick off the floor and wondered. Five thousand years old, and all it would take was a sharp sword and all of it would be gone. Good job Methos was safe here — as safe as it ever got. And, from the depth of this sleep, that was something which Methos clearly felt. The thought made Joe smile, proud in the trust that this man bestowed on him.

Five thousand years. As old as civilization, more or less. It was crazy. More than crazy — sad. He stared at the sleeping face and realised an old blues riff had played its way into his head, one as melancholy as rain in autumn, and he almost laughed out loud. Hell, if the old man knew what he was thinking, he'd never hear the end of it. Joe tutted wryly to himself; if there was one thing this guy really hated, it was to being taken too seriously.

"Hey, Methos..." Joe leant down stopped, just before his hand made contact in order to shake him awake. He frowned as the sleeper twisted suddenly, a soft sound slipping from his tightly closed mouth. "Methos?"

But the nightmare was making the long body twist in the chair, pulling the ascetic face into a mask of misery. Joe reached out and touched the skin of one hand, repeating the softly spoken name, "Methos..." And ended up flat on his back as an arm hit out violently.

Mildly stunned by surprise, he lay where he was.

"Joe..?"

"You awake?"

"Yes. Yes, I must be. Hell, I'm sorry! I must have been dreaming..."

"I noticed."

"I didn't know who you were."

"Good. Now get me off the floor, will you?"

"Sure, sure." Methos wiped a hand over his face and slightly unsteadily got to his feet. "Come on." He moved so he was at Joe's back then putting both hands under his arms levered him upright. They stood quite close for a moment, Joe turning to ask a silent question. Methos sighed, rubbing a hand through his short, cropped hair, "I am sorry. I haven't been sleeping all that well of late."

"You whacked anyone else?"

"No one else has been near enough. Sorry. You okay?"

"A bruised butt, nothing serious."

Methos turned away and sat down on the edge of the chair, his face in his hands. When he spoke his voice was muffled. "I shouldn't have come here..."

Still standing, Joe looked down and asked, "Why did you?"

Thin shoulders sketched a shrug.

"Whatever your reasons, Methos, I'm glad you did."

"Really." Irony again.

"Yeah. Even if you do plaster me all over the floor." He rubbed delicately at one hip.

Methos lifted his head from his hands. He was still very pale, pinched, the skin around his eyes fragile. "Shall I apologise again?"

"No. I thought you might try laughing, for a change." The darkened eyes flinched. Joe muttered something under his breath, then asked, all brisk efficiency, "Hell, you still want that tea?"

Methos closed his eyes in an approximation of a man being offered his heart's desire. "Please."

"There you go." He nodded to the desk smugly. "There's a sandwich as well, some potato–chips, a little salad. Eat what you want."

Methos stood up, absent–mindedly easing the muscles in his neck, then went over to inspect the food. His stomach gave a loud rumble, and he looked down at in almost comical surprise. "Guess I must be hungry!" He grinned over his shoulder.

"Eat up then. Hope the tea's okay."

Methos inspected the cooling cup of hot water, then picked up off the saucer the tea–bag by its little piece of string. If he fantasised about a tea–pot, or boiling water, or tea–leaves, he didn't show Joe. Merely raising a brow the other man couldn't see he dropped the bag into the water. "Thanks, Joe. This is great."

"I still think a beer would have been easier!"

"But at the moment, let me tell you, I really appreciate this." Methos was dunking the bag by its little tail of string, in and out of the water. Which even after concerted effort was still only just about the colour of pale gold. At least it would be hot...

"Sit at the desk, take your time." Joe settled himself on the couch that ran against one wall. He watched his companion circumnavigate the desk and sit down as if every bone ached. "You all right?"

Settling into the chair, leaning his elbows on the desk, Methos considered, his head tilted slightly to one side. "That depends on whether you want truth, or a social nicety."

"Oh, truth, every time!" Joe grinned at the disbelieving look he got from under Methos' brow. "Well..."

"Exactly." He took a bite of sandwich, chewed, swallowed, then took a sip of the tea. Only then did he answer. "I'm tired, Joe."

"Its been a rough few weeks."

"Understatement!" The flash of dark humour was soon gone. "But I mean really tired. I want to live, so badly...but... Hell, I just wonder sometimes if it is all worth it."

"After so long, it must be!"

"After so long..." Methos stared at his plate. "I don't know." Then he took another bite, as if suddenly ravenous.

"Why don't you tell Mac what you feel for him?"

Methos shuddered violently, the tremor running fast through his body then going, leaving him pale, ashen; the sandwich in pieces where his fingers had torn through it. "I might have done, once. Not now..."

"Because of Kronos."

"Because of Kronos." He nodded slowly in affirmation.

"I still think you should talk to him."

"Yeah, I know you do. But you don't have all the facts, you don't know what it was like." He lowered his hands, brushing bread off his fingers. "And you have no idea what Duncan thinks."

"Prove him wrong." Joe leant forward, eager to convince.

But Methos picked at the ruins of his meal, his long fingers wrecking it even further. "How can I, Joe? When all he knows is the truth."

"To hell with Kronos!" Joe thumped his stick on the floor, utterly frustrated at he ability these two had to misunderstand each other. Hell, he'd never seen himself in the role of match–maker before, but such unhappiness was painful to watch. And someone had to do something to sort things out. "I don't think it matters a damn what you did with that worthless bastard — I don't think Mac can care either!"

"No?"

Was there hope in that word, or simply suppressed ridicule? "No. He cares more for you than that." If anything, Joe was certain the Immortal before him blushed, his cheeks tinting a pale red.

"I don't think so."

"You think too much, that's your problem, Methos." Joe shook his head in disgust. "You think too fucking much."

"Sometimes it is difficult not to." Methos took a deep, unsteady breath. "It could all have been so different."

"Yeah, I've said that one myself a few times." Joe pushed himself up from the seat. "I'm having a drink, want one?"

"Yeah, why not." Methos slumped back in the chair, then reached forward and picked a sliver of lettuce off the plate and popped it into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully.

"Malt or bourbon?" Joe was standing by his private stocks. "or I can get you a beer if you'd rather."

"No. Malt's fine."

"There you go — Tallisker."

Methos gave him a sour look over the glass. "Thanks, Joe. You making a point or something?"

"No." Disingenuous, Joe sat down and took a sip of his own drink. "Mac gave it to me, he says it's from his clan country."

"It is."

Joe waited, sipping happily. "Good isn't it?"

A soft sigh drifted across the desk. "The best, Joe. The best..."

They drank for about an hour, hardly talking, each involved in his own thoughts. Then Methos yawned, widely, and Joe noticed that his eyes were red rimmed again. "Hey — you get back to sleep."

"I should go..."

"Why, for chrissake? Settle down here, you won't be disturbed."

"You sure?"

"Don't make me mad!" Joe tutted to himself and watched as Methos stood up, very slightly unsteady. "Come on, give me a hand."

Methos came and stood at his side, slid an arm under his and levered him upright. "You okay to work?"

"I can handle a guitar after a bottle of malt, let alone half!"

"Sorry!" Methos grinned.

"And do you think I have employees if not to deal with the punters."

"The best way." He smiled, warmth and easy humour crinkling his eyes. Then, suddenly, he was serious. "Joe, do you think I should have said something to Macleod, before all this?"

"Damn right." Through the merry haze of malt, Joe tried to sort his thoughts. "He wants you as bad as you want him, he was like bear with a sore head so long I nearly set the two of you up on a blind date!" Joe laughed wryly, shaking his head in bemusement. "You know, in the army I had a rep as a homophobe. I wasn't, but rumour's a funny thing. Anyway, I wonder what they'd think of this, me trying to get you two sorted!"

"Laugh. I don't know."

"Neither do I. But get yourself sorted out, Methos, okay?"

"Yeah!" Methos waved an airy hand around, the gesture only just too expansive for a sober man. "I'll just tell him what I feel and wait for my head to leave my body." He stopped then, and his shoulders slumped as if in defeat. "What if I'm wrong, Joe? What if I may as well be dreaming?" He smiled lopsidedly. "After all, have you seen him date a guy? He might be really straight."

"Yeah, yeah. And what are you, mister ancient? Gay, straight, bisexual? They're just labels. Mac's what he wants to be." Joe snorted in bemusement. "Christ, you'd think the two of you could have a few more skills at this sort of thing, after practising for so long!"

"That's the trouble, Joe, I haven't been doing any practising at all. And now its too bloody late."

"It is never too late, surely you understand that?

"Do I?" Methos sank back onto the couch Joe had vacated, his face troubled, maudlin. "Maybe."

"Go to sleep. This is just the whisky talking."

"Talking profoundly..."

"Yeah, through its arse. Sleep well, I'll be back at when I've closed up." Joe unhooked his stick from the back of a chair and went towards the door.

"Thanks..."

"No problem, Adam. Anytime."

"What would I do without you?"

"Pay for a hotel!" Joe laughed, warmed when Methos softly followed suit. "Go on. There's a comforter behind the end cushion."

"Night..."

Joe let himself out of the office, totally confused as to whether he'd done the right thing in getting Macleod over. Still, it was done. And Methos couldn't get much unhappier than he was, that was for certain.

* * * * *

Hours later, well past midnight, no longer even a little bit drunk, Joe Dawson said good night to the last of his staff to leave, and locked up for the night. He yawned widely, and ran a hand through his hair. He felt exhausted, as if someone had stolen all his energy. Well, that would teach him to drink too much whisky so early in the day. Though at least his head didn't ache too much anymore — thank the lord for Tylenol.

The conversation with Methos had been worth a little suffering though. He was someone who rarely spoke of what he really felt, and it had needed the malt to loosen things up, let him talk. Though it hadn't been the most optimistic conversation in the world, that was certain. What was needed was Macleod here, now. Though the likelihood of him getting here before tomorrow was running out.

With a sigh Dawson slipped the keys into his pocket and, with one last look around the empty bar, headed for the office and his friend. He was only half way there when Methos emerged, blinking sleep out of his eyes. "Hi, Joe — what time is it?"

"Midnight. You feeling better?"

"Much. I'd love another cup of tea though, for some reason I'm really thirsty." He grinned.

"I wonder why! Come on, you can help me make it."

"I knew there'd be a catch."

"Always."

"Mmm, I've found that out."

"You'd be bloody naive if you hadn't, come on."

Methos followed in his wake across the bar. They were half–way when a loud banging at the door stopped both men in their tracks and Methos felt the first insidious curl of awareness at another Immortal's presence. He turned to Joe and raised an eyebrow, his face expressing something close to resignation. "Macleod?"

Joe admitted, "Yeah, I called him."

"Well, I didn't think he was here on the off–chance for a beer!"

"You can't run away forever. And he does want to talk to you."

"But do I want to talk to him?" The question was almost aimed at himself, but after a second, Methos sighed. "Go on, Joe, let him in before the neighbours complain about the noise."

As fast as his halting stride would allow, Joe went to the door and unfastened the bolts. He pulled the door open and Macleod slipped inside. It had been raining, his leather coat glistened under the electric lights, his tied back hair sparking broken pin–points of brilliance as he moved. He looked tired, his chin unshaven, his eyes very sombre as he stared at Methos.

Joe wondered if either of them was aware he was still in the room. He looked between them and shook his head. "I'm going home. If you want anything, sorry, all the coffee machines are off, but you know where the kitchen is. Just don't kill each other — my insurance isn't up to it!" He waited a moment for any response, but when neither man even looked at him, he gave in and left them to it.

Methos, standing alone in the wide room, his shoulders slumped, blinked as Macleod paced slowly towards him, unbuttoning his coat as he moved. It seemed as if he filled the room, not just from physical power, though he had enough of that, but with his presence, the force of character that made eyes turn. He was a beautiful animal, graced with both intelligence and integrity; an altogether overwhelming combination. Methos slid his hands deep into his pockets, and tried for nonchalance, ignoring the speeding of his heart and the sudden dryness of his mouth. "Hello, Macleod."

"Methos."

"Good journey?"

"No."

"Me neither. I've had worse though."

"You would have."

"I suppose I would." Methos acknowledged the hit with a nod.

"Why did you leave?"

"I didn't realise you wanted me to stay."

"Guess I should've tied you down." Macleod's sudden, vicious anger filled the room.

Methos flinched, swallowing hard on bile. Unwilling to show comprehension of what the other man meant, he asked, "Why?" Though he needed two stabs at the word before one emerged coherently.

"One, because you wouldn't have been able to run away, and two, because you would have enjoyed it!" Macleod almost spat the last, fury bringing him a step closer.

Methos took a long indrawn breath, his head tilting back as shoulders almost locked with tension. "Kronos' memories."

"Yeah, what d'you expect after I killed him?"

"This. Nothing but this." This anger, this hatred, was only his just desert. Methos gestured emptily, his hands falling loosely at his sides.

"Yeah."

"Do you want my head?" Methos dragged strength from nowhere, and met Macleod's eyes. "Is that why you came here?"

"No."

"Oh." Methos blinked in surprise. "Then..."

"I want you to tell me why."

"Why what?" Methos' voice was very soft as he passively accepted the anger being flung at him.

"Why you let him treat you like that! Why you were such a damned coward!"

"And you wonder why exactly I left France." Methos laughed, the sound a dry rattle in his throat.

"I went looking for you, but you'd gone. There were things left unsaid!"

"Unsaid?" Methos stirred himself, finally letting the words bite home. "You said enough. Every time you looked at me you spoke volumes! I left, Duncan, because I didn't want you preaching at me." The last was almost shouted, anger suddenly there to match any Duncan could find.

"How did you know I'd preach?"

"Because, you are you! You haven't a clue about what it was like for me, you just judge by your own standards, ones that would have got you killed."

"And yet you survived."

"Yes, heard this before? — it is what I do best!"

"And you'll do anything to make sure of it."

"Yes."

"Even be his...his..."

"Slave. That's what I was. He captured me, he liked me, I was careful to make him understand how useful I could be, I ended up riding with him, and sleeping with him when he wanted me. I was as equal as he wanted me to be, and after a while, yes I enjoyed it. Can you even begin to imagine what it was like, finally having some measure of power? No, of course you can't — you've never been without it, have you, no one ever enslaved the warrior Macleod, did they? Lucky you didn't live a few thousand years earlier!" He caught hold of his anger, breathing hard. "I killed, hunted, and lived for the Horsemen — for Kronos. And yes, I was bloody good at all of it. I was even bloody good in bed. You see, everything I told you was true." Methos shivered as the anger spilled away, leaving his voice hoarse and cracked. "It was all as simple as that."

"Sleeping?" Duncan ignored most of what Methos had said, fixing on one detail. "I don't see much of that, you were avid as a fucking rabbit!"

"Avid." Methos suddenly relaxed, a bitter smile tearing his face across. "Yeah, once I'd got used to being raped, being made love to was a pleasant change — and before you quibble, after what I'd been used to it was love — so I suppose you could say I was avid. You know — he was the first man to ask me what I wanted, to consider that I might be a better bed–mate if I actually had a chance of enjoying being there." Methos watched revulsion slip across Macleod's face. He stopped explaining, and sighed. "I told you that you wouldn't understand." He turned away, heading slightly unsteadily for the bar. A hand on his shoulder stopped him, the touch like fire in his veins.

"What about now, not all those thousands of years ago. What about when he found you, stabbed a knife through your heart and gave you the choice of being his companion or dying, what about then — you loved it! You didn't even have to think twice!"

There was no thought behind the action, simply blind rage. Before he knew what he was doing, Methos had lashed out, turning on one heel and punching Macleod as hard as he could, the feeling of flesh colliding with flesh utterly, insanely satisfying.

Taken by surprise, Duncan crashed into a table, splintering it into pieces before he fell heavily to the floor, lying there in a sprawl of broken wood, his coat open around him, sword glinting, docile at his side. After a long breath, he climbed to his feet, then slid his coat off, tossing it, and the sword it held, across a chair. He gave a feral grin. "Just so you don't misunderstand anything." Then without warning, he was grappling close, skill and fury taking Methos down hard.

Face twisted away from the floor, Methos by necessity held still, his throat a hairs–breadth from being broken. Sweat lay slick along his jaw, highlighting the bones of his face; his skin was very pale, his eyes without hope. The image of Macleod pressed along the length of his back was something that recurred in fantasies. But not like this, not like this. Despair was bitter herbs, burned in his mouth.

"Did it turn you on when he used the chains? I thought you looked a bit he worse for wear when you came to the dojo, but I didn't realise it was because you'd just been well and truly fucked! He was a sick bastard — but an inventive one, I'll give him that."

The hands tightened imperceptibly. Deprived of movement, of air, pain spiking through his back, Methos still managed to laugh. "Oh, think what you want of me, Macleod. I don't give a damn!"

"Don't you. Did you want me dead? What was it all about, all the games, all the tricks?"

The room darkened at the edges. Want Macleod dead? What a pathetic joke. Methos tried to explain but gave up, Macleod wouldn't want to hear the answers anyway.

"I know what you want, or is it need? Shall I fuck you here?" He thrust down with his hips into the curve of Methos arse. "Would you scream my name the way you screamed his if I beat you, if I hurt you enough?" Duncan was shouting, his whole body an instrument of his anger, his pain. "Was that all you wanted? I could have done that, I could!" He broke off, the words choking in his throat and his muscles tightened. "Methos...I loved you!"

The declaration, sharp as a knife twisted deep into flesh, was the last thing Methos heard. Startled by Macleod's words he moved a millimetre too far. And slumped in Duncan's arms as, with a soft, sickening crunch, his neck succumbed to the pressure.

Appalled, shocked out of anger into something closer to sanity, Macleod slowly relaxed his hands, peeling them away from skin, seeing the dark bruises they left behind. He swallowed bitterly, stunned to realise that he was hard, so aroused he was close to coming. Like a scalded animal he was away from the body, on his feet, turning away, hiding himself, denying everything. He staggered to lean on the bar, every muscle shaking. Only after a seemingly impossible time, the need faded, leaving an ache in his groin, a hollow pain in his gut and his mind in turmoil. He wiped a shaky hand over his mouth and slowly straightened, turning.

Methos was there, sprawled untidily on the floor. He was still quite dead.

Duncan stared at him, and the wanting was still there, his own need allied with Kronos'. That he could imagine such things, want to inflict such things on that long, supple body... It was so wrong... He had always prided himself on being a considerate lover, never hurting more than the rough–and–tumble that good sex necessitated. Now, he saw in his mind Methos on his knees, a practise sword–fight lost, Duncan's blade at his throat, and, well what he wanted to do was inhumane. Worse. Most appalling of all was that he knew Methos would respond, would love it all. As he had with Kronos, as he would again...

Shuddering with distaste at his own obscene desire, Duncan ran a hand over his own mouth and concentrated on breathing deeply and calmly. It was ridiculous, these thoughts were simply echoes from Kronos. Deeper breaths... Kronos was sick... Slow, even breaths... There, that was better.

He still wanted Methos with an edge of need that hurt, but he was sane enough to know that the need was his own. He had left Paris so determined to be reasonable. Reasonable... That was such a joke! But there was no blaming anyone else, not even Kronos. The fantasies that populated his mind belonged to that evil bastard, the wanting didn't. Couldn't. Because he had wanted Methos from the day they had met, loved him for almost as long. Now, all he could feel was unbearable anger at himself, for not having settled the issue months before.

Before what had been clean desire was muddied by Kronos memories.

It had been uncertainty that stopped him. Allied with maybe a certain cowardice of his own. Now he was paying the penalty for such indecision.

No, Methos was paying. Duncan forced himself to focus on the still body. His instinct was to leave, though that smacked of running, and he knew that never solved anything. With resignation he sighed, knowing that whatever had happened, or was going to happen, what he wanted was here, lying still and dead and as utterly desirable as he had ever been.

At least Kronos had good taste. The thought made him smile resentfully.

He eyed the still form, managing to do so almost impartially. Methos would hurt when he came to, when life poured back into the damaged body and the cracked bones. Perhaps what was needed was to bring this back to normality. Or at least normality of a sort. Joe had mentioned tea, hadn't he? Yes, that would be good for a sore throat. And it would give him something to do — something that didn't involve thinking, or looking at the long–limbed sprawl in front of him.

Macleod crouched down and gently moved the body onto its back. he touched his hand to the silent face. There were dark shadows under the closed eyes, ones that looked like they had been there for a while. He couldn't remember when he had last seen Methos looking well; there had been so much pain. An image of this man tortured by the barbarian, and loving every moment of it, flooded shockingly into his head. His cock flexed hopefully. Ruthlessly, used now to the immediacy of the visions, Duncan suppressed the stolen memory. He was still aroused though. Sickened by himself, he stood and, with one last glance behind him, headed for the kitchens.

The simple task of preparing tea was a balm to his overstretched nerves. He made it the English way, with boiling water, though the lack of a tea–pot almost derailed his plans, a jug having to make do on its stead. By the time he had laden a tray with cups, he had even managed to convince himself that everything could be worked out.

But when he returned to the bar, the floor was empty. He gaped like the village idiot, then, carelessly putting the tray down on the nearest table, he called out, "Methos?" Running now, he checked the wash–room, the office, the cellar. Nothing. Back in the bar he found the keys and went to the exit, pulling open the door. Outside, the night was stormy, the pavements gleaming wetly under the streetlights as rain sheeted down. There was no sign of Methos, the street utterly deserted.

Back inside, Duncan stood quite still for a moment. The bar was a mess, though he'd make it up to Dawson later. Reaching down he picked up his coat and slipped it on, touching his sword for reassurance. Where to look first? Joe's. Methos might well be there. And if he wasn't? Well, if anyone would know where he was, Joe was that person. If he could be persuaded to tell, of course.

Duncan locked up securely and left, his shoulders hunching in his coat as he tried to avoid the rain

* * * * *

Joe hadn't even made it as far as his bed when incessant ringing of his door–bell brought him grumbling to answer the summons. After a quick check through the spy–hole, he sighed and pushed back the bolts. "You wanted me, Mac?" Joe sighed and stood back to let Macleod in. He was wet, harried.

"No, I want Methos. Where is he?"

"Not here, pal!" Joe muttered something that might have been both obscene and improbable, then asked baldly, "You lose him again? That's what I call damned careless."

"I thought he might be here..."

Duncan was quartering the apartment, when he disappeared onto the bedroom, Joe called out, "You really expect him to be in my bed?"

Macleod came and stood in the doorway. "I don't know..."

"He's my friend, Mac. Just that, nothing more." Joe watched the shifting emotions and sighed. "I want some coffee — how about you?"

"Yeah, please. And Joe, I'm sorry..."

"Don't even think about it." Shaking his head in bemusement Dawson went into the kitchen.

Suddenly unsteady, all the determination that had brought him here draining away, Duncan sat down heavily. He stared at his fingers, the memory of bone cracking as he twisted that long neck past any measure of tolerance shuddering through him.

Christ, it was all such an unbelievable mess.

He ran his hands down across his knees, as if drying his palms. He had felt life departing the body, the bone breaking with a sound like tinder catching light, the feel shuddering through his own bones as Methos died.

Yet Methos had started it all. Started everything with his inability to trust Macleod with the knowledge of Kronos, of who he was and what he meant. Methos should have let him help, seen him as more than a pawn to be manipulated, to be stood in the way of Kronos' black king.

Manipulated, and he hadn't seen any of it. Not until after the event, when it was always so easy to be wise. His own lack of perception stung. Attraction had blinded him, there in the way Methos moved, in the way he managed to sprawl with such inviting abandon across Duncan's bed. All that long body on show, but never offered any further.

Not that Duncan had tried. Which, in light of what he now knew, he should have done. He should have just taken what was on offer, not troubled over it at all. He now knew Methos would have responded, would have wanted anything Duncan could offer. Would have wanted more. He closed his eyes and immediately he was seeing through Kronos' eyes, seeing that long body naked, chained to metal. Blood covered the back he was pressed against, slid viscous between sweating skin and skin. Pleasure, wicked ecstasy was wild in his blood, power shocking in its intensity as Methos whispered his name again and again — Kronos...

He dug his fingers into the muscles of his thighs, cursing softly, hard as iron beneath his jeans despite the sickness that curled in his belly.

"You okay?"

Duncan started, unaware until the words were spoken that Joe had even come back into the room. The vision was gone, lust dead in his blood. He bit down on shame and watched as Joe put down the tray he was carrying and then sit down wearily. Only then did he feel strong enough to talk. "Yeah, I'm fine." Macleod was surprised at how hoarse his own voice sounded.

"Here, drink this."

Duncan took the proffered mug and sighed thankfully as the smell of whisky hit him through the coffee. "Thanks, Joe."

"No problem. Tell me, what did you do to make him go off in a snit again?"

"Killed him."

Joe closed his eyes briefly, and sighed in deep resignation. "I see. Well maybe he wasn't in a snit — maybe he was just really pissed at you! I thought you to were meant to be talking!"

"We don't appear to be very good at talking, Joe."

"I'll say!" Joe took blew across the surface of his mug, carefully examining the choppy waves he'd created in the coffee. "Well, what are you going to do?"

"I've no idea."

"That's helpful!"

"Yeah..." Duncan shrugged miserably. "Joe, I really didn't want to hurt him, but I was so angry. I still am!" He hesitated, then asked painfully, images from Kronos past flashing strobe–like through his thoughts, "Do you think this is a dark quickening?"

Joe shook his head in denial. "No. If you had seen yourself as you were then, you wouldn't even ask."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Joe sipped his drink. "It was quite different — ask Methos."

"Ask Methos?"

"Yeah, or Richie." It was clear Joe would say no more, his face was closed off, his thoughts secret. "Anyway, I couldn't have talked to you like this if you were influenced by a dark quickening — you'd be trying to rip my head off!"

"Sorry..."

"Don't apologise — I was just telling you, not raking up old guilt."

"But I can feel him — Kronos — really strongly." Duncan relaxed his shoulders slightly, easing them in a circular motion. "I guess it'll just take a while for him to fade."

"Yeah, you've assimilated so many others, you'll manage."

"I hope so," Macleod answered with heartfelt sincerity.

"Anyway, just how old was he?"

"I don't know exactly, but thousands of years, maybe almost as much as Methos."

"You ever taken anyone that old before?"

"I don't think so — at least none who was quite so powerful."

"There you are then." Joe drained the last drops from his mug and reached forward to put it down with a clatter. "Now go home Mac, I need my beauty sleep, even if you don't."

"Whoa! Hang on — I'll go home in a minute, but what do you mean?"

Joe scratched his fingers through his beard before answering. "The older the quickening the stronger it is — which is why Methos is such a prime target, yes?" He waited for Macleod to nod. "And you haven't taken a quickening that old in a long time, if ever. So, it's just taking you longer to absorb, or deal with in whatever way you guys do. Seems reasonable to me." He smoothed the disturbed bristles down.

"Yeah, it is..."

"Good. Now did I mention sleep, or was I imagining things."

"I'm going, Joe." Duncan began to stand, then paused, perched on the edge of his seat. "What do you think I should do?"

"Simple, go find him and this time talk to him without losing your temper."

"I didn't..."

"No? You want to blame Kronos for that little fracas?"

"No." Duncan took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Okay, so I lost my temper — but I tell you Joe, this has been enough to try the patience of a saint!"

"Something you certainly aren't."

"No." Duncan made a half–hearted gesture of exasperation. "I never pretended to be."

"No." Joe nodded agreement. "And even if you did kill Methos, at least you left him his head."

"I wouldn't have taken..." He shook his head in horrified denial.

"He got right under your skin, I'd bet. He's good at that. He made you angry, confused and lord who knows what else..." Joe settled back again — resigned to more discussion. "That's more reaction than most people get out of you, apart from maybe Amanda."

"That's different,"

"Is it?"

Duncan slowly looked up, and stared at Joe without blinking, his eyes angry and his mouth sulky.

"Well?" Joe prodded.

With a sigh Duncan closed his eyes, then nodded, as if answering some internal question. "No, not really."

"Then go and talk to him — properly!"

Duncan gave a small, humourless snort of laughter. "I would, except there's one problem — among the many — he didn't exactly leave a forwarding address. I don't know where he is." He hesitated, then asked with complete sincerity. "Joe, I don't want to hurt him, I promise. If you know where he would have gone, please tell me."

"You think I'd know?"

"You're his friend, maybe the only person left he really trusts. He must have said something about a bolt–hole — we all have at least one."

Joe sipped his coffee and considered. He believed Duncan about his intentions, absolutely. But did Methos want to be found? That was a difficult question. "Duncan, go home. Let me sleep on it. There is somewhere, but..." He shrugged apologetically.

"Joe, it's okay, I understand." Duncan stood up. "Sleep on it. And, if you talk to Methos, tell him I'm sorry."

Joe smiled softly. "Yeah, Mac. I will. Though, knowing him, he understands that already."

"Yeah." Duncan nodded, then turned towards the door. "I'll let myself out. 'night, Joe. I'll call by in the morning."

"Yeah. Duncan?"

Macleod paused by the door, his eyes expectant. "Joe?"

"Where'll you be?"

"Oh, at the dojo."

"Fine." Joe cleared his throat, a frown pulling his brows together. "Remember something, when you find him, will you. That there are two sides to every story." He shrugged in a sort of awkward apology. "Not that I want to tell you your business."

"No problem, I appreciate it, honestly."

"Well then, there's something else. Treat him softly, he's more..." Joe searched for a word, knowing all of them were wrong, deciding hurriedly on one more emotive than he would have liked. "...fragile, than he lets on."

Duncan's mind flashed to one of Kronos memories, but he only smiled tightly and replied, "I'll remember. Good night."

Joe listened as the door clicked shut behind the Highlander. Then he sighed wearily to himself and rested his head on the back of the couch. It was all such a tangled web, one he wasn't sure he was helping to untangle at all. Perhaps it would have been better to leave them to it. Then he remembered the depth of misery Methos had been in when he arrived back from France, and knew at least that he hadn't made anything worse than it already was.

Slowly he gathered himself up and stood, heading for the bedroom and as many uninterrupted hours sleep as he could get.

* * * * *

Duncan Macleod wearily let himself into the Dojo. It was almost morning. He'd tried the last place Methos had stayed, but there was no–one there. He closed the door, locked himself in and with a yawn pushed through into the gym. It hadn't really been long since he last was here, but it felt a lifetime so much had happened. Walking across the wooden floor, not bothering with lights, he smelled the same smells that always spelled out this home, wood polish, soft leather and liniment. Dust too, though that could soon be dealt with, if he was going to be here long enough to bother. Everything here was the just how he'd left it, and without looking he knew the living quarters upstairs would be the same. Richie hadn't been here, the equipment was all undisturbed, and Amanda was far away. There was no one else. He headed for the elevator, faintly disquieted at the thought.

He touched a hand to the slatted door, but didn't pull it up. Instead, he paused for a moment in the shadows, then went around to the stairs and with heavy feet walked up.

Another yawn cracked open his face, one that almost dislocated his jaw as, half way through, completely off–guard, he felt the sudden dark excitement of another Immortal's presence. One he recognised without any doubt.

Methos.

The sense of relief was appalling.

He bounded up the last few steps, despair and exhaustion sloughing from his shoulders. Only to pause suddenly at the door, his fingers reaching to feel the sword under his coat. The metal was cold against his skin. He brushed the tips of his fingers against where it waited, smooth and indifferent and utterly patient, but didn't draw the steel out. Instead he opened the door, not surprised to find it unlocked.

"You could teach Amanda some tricks." Duncan stepped into the room, addressing his words to the person as yet unseen. "I suppose you've been a burglar as well as everything else." The words were regretted as soon as they left his mouth.

Silence.

"Methos, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. Methos?" Everything was dark, but it only took a moment for Duncan's eyes to adjust, enough light filtering through from the street for him to finally place where the other Immortal sat. "Shall I turn a light on?"

A rustle of fabric, followed by what might have been a sigh. "If you want."

Duncan stepped across to a small lamp and reaching under the shade clicked it on. Light blossomed across the room, reaching the seated figure on the couch. He watched as Methos winced and averted his eyes. He was still wearing the same dark clothes he had been in earlier, and must have come straight here. Duncan cursed the impulse that had taken him to Joe's apartment. He should have been here, should somehow have known. He took another couple of steps towards the seated figure. "Are you okay?"

Very slowly, Methos lifted his head and faced him. His lips thinned in consideration, then he nodded once, though there really was no confidence in the affirmation.

"I'm sorry about killing you..."

Heavily, as if weighed down, Methos shrugged. "You didn't. Not really. I did it myself."

"If you're going to be exact about it, maybe, but it wouldn't have happened if..."

"Macleod, stop it."

Halted by the jaded voice, Duncan was silent.

"Sit down." A hand was arced through the air in invitation. "There's a bottle open on the table, and a glass there somewhere." I was going to wait for you, but you took too long."

"I went to Joe's."

"You thought I'd be there?"

Duncan heard the amused understanding and decided to ignore it. "It seemed a possibility." He sat down on the edge of the seat and, reaching forward, poured himself some wine, though he had to drain the bottle to get half a glass.

"Maybe. Though I thought that Joe might've had enough of our troubles. I came here. Waited for you."

"Are you very drunk?"

A long, owl–like blink answered the question. "Joe says he can play the guitar better after a bottle of malt. I don't believe him."

"Neither do I." Now he knew, Duncan could hear the faint slur that blurred a voice he'd always considered beautiful. He looked around carefully, then saw the two empty bottles on the side. He faced forward again, his eyes tracing the easy slump which seemed to fit Methos to the couch as fluidly as water. Desire shadowed his thoughts, pursuing him like a traitor. "I thought you might want revenge for me killing you."

"No."

"Just that? Just, no?"

"What else do you need, Duncan Macleod?" Methos sighed, closing his eyes, his fingers loose around the glass in his hands.

"Nothing, I suppose."

"Good." His face clouded. "Who am I, Macleod? I thought I knew..." Pain shivered across his face, then he blinked, the moment of revelation gone. "And I'm very tired." He yawned widely. "And I was going to have so much to say to you."

"You're very drunk!"

"Yes, and it is infinitely better than being sober." He half sat up, mild interest on his face. "Unless you do want my head, of course, then I suppose I would be stupid to be here. Do you want my head, Macleod?"

"No, you're safe."

"I thought so." And he lay back with a sigh that was already part of a dream.

Duncan just caught the glass before it slid to the floor. He straightened, and looked down at Methos, utterly perplexed. It was very late, and he was tired himself. The bed called invitingly to him across the room, as did the sleeping body, though he resolutely ignored the latter siren–call. Methos would be comfortable enough here, tipped so he lay flat and covered with a blanket. Or should he carry the sleeper over to the bed, take the couch himself. They could share the bed, it was certainly big enough.

It was a tempting image, but was it the wise thing to do? They could sleep, then wake up and make up between the sheets? Once, before Kronos, that was exactly what he would have done in this situation. Now he was unsure, and that uncertainty made him angry again, fury bubbling up from somewhere within him, from the dark place he refused to acknowledge.

Cursing softly he turned on his heel and, ignoring Methos completely, pulled off his own clothes and climbed into bed. It was cold enough to make him shiver, the discomfort merely making his anger burn all the brighter. Pummelling the pillow he tried to settle, then forced himself to lie still. Methos began to snore, very softly. Strangely enough, after a while, the noise was soothing enough to lull Duncan to sleep.

* * * * *

Methos awoke from a night overpopulated with dreams and, for a split second of time, had no idea at all where he was. Then, as reality caught up, he groaned miserably.

"Here, you might like this."

The dry voice brought him upright from where he must have curled in the night. He blinked to clear his eyes, and there was Duncan, a mug of coffee, steaming and aromatic in his hand. "Thanks."

"I've showered, so..."

Methos took the hint. He climbed to his feet and, pausing only to pick up the coffee–mug, went off to the bathroom.

A voice called after him, "I found some clothes that should fit, they're on the side, along with a clean towel..."

Methos muttered a thank you and disappeared behind a firmly closed door.

Half an hour later, finally having chosen to take a bath instead of a shower — one sight of the wide, luxurious bath all the persuasion he needed — he emerged, clean, shiny, and all together more fragrant, wearing black jeans and a loose sweater that bagged conspicuously around his thin body. He placed the empty cup down next to Duncan where he sat in the kitchen. Morning sunshine flooded in from the high windows, the day bright and lovely. It was a day to be happy in, a day to love being alive. There, he remembered the sentiments, at least.

"You want something to eat?" Macleod scarcely looked at him, the paper open before him clearly fascinating. "I had muesli and some fruit."

The voice was cold, but there was an offer of treaty there. Methos was about to make a face, then thought better if it. If this really was the beginnings of a truce, he liked it. "Fine!" He slid his hands into his jeans' pockets.

"You can have eggs, bacon, whatever you want."

"Toast would be good, and maybe some tea."

"You'll be asking for Marmite next! How long did you live in England?"

"Long enough."

"Me too." Duncan stood up, almost smiling and pottered over to the toaster. He set about making breakfast for his guest, filling a pan with water. The whole scenario had a faintly false feel to it, as if he and Methos were acting out a morning they had already lived through, one where they were still easy friends, before Jacob, before Kronos. It was pleasant enough, despite the hollowness, and he for one didn't want to rake up the anger which surfaced so easily these days. It had been hard to admit his own weakness, harder still to see that so much dark rage lived within himself, rage at what he was and what he had been forced to do simply to survive. Though he had never subjugated himself to another the way Methos had. Anger stabbed through him as a memory, sharp as a colour photograph, slid insidiously into his mind. Methos, how could he have done such things, allowed — damn him!

"Duncan."

"What?" Macleod replied sharply. Then realised that water was cascading out of the pan he was trying to fill, spilling everywhere, splashing himself, the work–surface, the floor. Hurriedly he turned off the faucet, putting the pan aside, his gaze firmly averted.

"Hey, we can talk if you want. It doesn't have to be tip–toed around, you know..."

"It?"

"Okay." Methos took a deep breath. "Kronos."

The name hung between them, and all the ease evaporated as if torched in gasoline.

Methos breathed in hard, his nostrils flaring slightly. Truth finally had to be spoken. "I knew I couldn't take him, not and remain sane. Too many of the memories were too close, too..."

"Appalling?" Duncan supplied the word, weighting it with derision.

"If you like."

"Yet you thought I'd be able to deal with them without any inconvenience, so you manipulated me into killing him."

Methos almost snapped back with a defense of himself, but truth was truth, so he simply admitted, "Yes."

"And trusted that I would have the strength to withstand the evil in him?"

"Yes."

"Well, lucky I did, isn't it?"

"I knew..."

"How could you! I can still feel him, like evil echoing inside me." Duncan turned and bitterly glared at the other man.

"I'm sorry..." Methos shook his head in wretched denial; while a faint thread of prescience made him cold with unease.

"I know what you did..."

"Duncan, I can't help what I was." It was a plea, almost silently uttered.

"Maybe not." Duncan seemed to hesitate, then he straightened, arrogance masking his face. He asked, cruelty quite conscious in his words, "I was wondering, just out of curiosity, do you get off on normal sex as well as pain?"

Despite his best intentions, Methos flinched. He hesitated, then found a stumbling reply of sorts. "Is that any of your business?"

"Yes."

Methos looked briefly for humour, and found only contempt and unsettling intensity. Considering, unsure of what he should say, of what would be believed, Methos buried his own reaction and answered, weighing every word. "I have liked all sorts of things. Pleasure can be found in the strangest of houses."

"So I noticed."

There was derision again. With a sigh that had him momentarily inspecting the ceiling, Methos bit down on his first choice of explanation. Mild anger dispelled any unease, making him ask sweetly, "Haven't you ever spanked Amanda when she's wanted you to?"

"And when she hasn't, but that was different."

"Was it?"

"Yes. Spanking is one thing, what you did with him was..." Duncan made a face and turned away, every line of his body taut. Then without warning he was back, a flush darkening his cheeks, finger pointing hard at the other man. "You know what's worst? The fact that you didn't ask."

"What?" Lost completely, Methos involuntarily backed away.

"You wanted me, didn't you." It was a statement, one that needed no reply as Macleod was already answering himself. "You did."

"So you're saying that I should have told you?" Methos made no attempt to disguise his incredulity, though he desperately tried to hide his dismay.

"Yeah."

"What should I have done, Macleod, seduced you? Are you saying you'd have done anything but laugh, politely of course, but nevertheless turn me down?"

"We'll never know will we."

"No." Methos found himself backed up to the wall, the intercom digging into the back of his neck. "We won't."

"I wanted you, you know that? Loved you. Then you found Alexa, and then there was Jacob... Then there was Kronos." Duncan almost spat the word into Methos' face. "But think on this, if we had got involved, if you had really been honest with me, then maybe you could have trusted me as well and told me about the Horseman."

Methos was glad of the wall's support, for some reason he had begun to shiver. "I couldn't have told you, I still wish you didn't know."

"Why? I could have helped, done something." He shrugged hopelessly. "Stopped you from having to go with them, from having to do..."

"Stop it Macleod!" Methos was having trouble breathing; all his emotions were clouded, twisted into a storm that had no focus. "Why do you think I didn't tell you? I couldn't bear the thought of you looking at me as if I was scum."

"I haven't!" Duncan leant a hand on the wall to the side of Methos' head. "I think Kronos was scum. Despite everything you were to him, at least you left him eventually — though fuck knows why it took you so bloody long!"

Methos raised his head, his eyes harrowed. "I did leave him. I broke up the brotherhood and destroyed everything he wanted. Yet I couldn't kill him, not then, not now, not even when he came and found me. I thought for so long that it was over, that I'd left it all behind. I should have known better, my nightmares should have bloody well told me that!"

"I could have helped." Duncan insisted stubbornly.

"Maybe. I am sorry."

"Are you?"

"Yes. For all of it," Methos answered softly. He stared into the deep eyes, seeing anger and pain, betrayal and desire. Something else as well, something he couldn't quite recognise. Then Duncan blinked and the prickling unease faded.

Before Methos could move though, before he had even thought of trying, Macleod came even closer.

Methos could feel breath, warm against his own skin, he could see a slight line of sweat where dark beard was beginning to shadow the curving upper lip. So close. He tried to move but was stopped by a move that brought the lips close to his own. Trapped by the wall, by the man, by his own long suppressed desire, he could hardly breath, knew he was trembling beyond any hope of concealment. Then lips brushed against his skin, warm, soft and tender, delicious. A thousand dreams shifted into reality. Methos closed his eyes, his mouth yearning forward...

Then Macleod laughed softly, and memories shattered like knives through his mind. He'd been here before, knew this intensity, this avaricious, uncompromising sensuality that layered so seamlessly through the beguiling charms of Macleod. It was like offering a starving man food, but coating it in acid before he could eat. The choice was pain either way, but would the burns be shallow, or deep enough to kill?

Shaking his head in denial, Methos began to say something, but a hand stroked his shoulder, each finger delineated in fire, and sense slid away in a rush that put heroin to shame. This was what he wanted, every sane desire he had ever felt on offer here, but twisted out of true by the shadow of Kronos. Not that it mattered, really. If he burned, he didn't care. This was worth it... As the hand slowly trailed down to his chest, he could hardly breath. When it touched his nipple he was moaning softly in need. Acid was burning his body from the inside as the fingers squeezed, such pleasure, such frightening pleasure...

"Duncan..." Methos shook his head, every claim he had ever laid to eloquence ashes in his mouth.

"Methos?" Duncan's mouth was smiling lazily, twisting into the thin shape of another's.

"Stop this! You don't have to be like him. Please, what you remember is wrong...I..."

Methos got no further, a wide mouth covered his own and every though fled. This was what he had craved the way a blind man wishes for light. This was everything he had dreamed, everything he had denied himself. Pressed hard into the wall, the solidity of Macleod's body weighted into him, the line of thigh warm against his own, the flat belly just curving away, hardness finding answering need in his own groin, Methos shuddered. Macleod was just tall enough, just big enough, for Methos to feel helpless, to feel — even against his will — all the dark pleasure in submission that Kronos had so painstakingly taught him.

Fear shimmered into lust. This was sick, obscene, appallingly wrong, but he let sanity fall away. His mouth, without volition, was open, being devoured, plundered, as strong hands took his wrists and held them tight against the plaster above his head. The mouth was smiling around the kiss as a thigh arrogantly pushed his legs apart and pressed up, pain there with the pleasure. The storm had closed in, leaving nothing but this moment in time, this man, this need. Methos knew himself to be nothing but what this man wanted, a submission he had never felt with Kronos leaving his knees weak and his will broken in shards to lay at Duncan's feet. He wanted to please, to do anything, to crawl across broken glass to press his lips to warm skin. If existence had a meaning it was here, it was now...

As if sensing the change, Duncan broke the kiss and, with his head nuzzling the long throat, murmured softly, "I knew you wanted this."

Methos nodded, speech an alien concept. Sharp teeth were chewing gently at his skin and clothing was only an irritation to be rid of as soon as possible.

"I'm glad I won — to the victor the spoils, eh, Brother!"

It was as if every drop of blood Methos possessed was replaced by ice. He stilled in shock, horrified, his eyes wide with painful recognition. A shading of Kronos within Macleod he could have dealt with, but his? Slowly he shook his head in denial. "No..." For Methos, it was if a dead man stared out of his friend's eyes, and at once he knew that the man who held him was not merely shadowed by another, but possessed.

"Methos, this is what you want, isn't it." 

Despite the fact that the words were not a question, Methos swallowed and shook his head in denial. "No, Macleod..."

"Come now! I remember everything, and now I want this too!"

"No. You don't want this, Duncan. I can't..." Methos struggled to free himself, but the strong hands were holding him fettered in place. "Believe me, I don't want to be hurt!"

"Oh, yeah!"

Methos whimpered as a hand went unerringly for his balls and squeezed. Pain skewered from his gut to his head, the world turning to a harsh vision of scarlet and grey.

"You see, Methos, I don't believe you. Cassandra said you always lied, and she was right. Even Kronos knew that — he trusted you about as far as he could throw you, though he loved fucking you so much it didn't really matter!"

"It was all power to him, Macleod." Methos fought the pain, fought to find the sanity in the Highlander's mind. "Just power..."

"And lust. God, you were good..." He grinned, the predator fulfilling its fate.

"I just stayed alive!" With the world darkening, Methos knew he had to do something, he didn't want to be on the floor, not now, not with so much of Kronos alive in Macleod. Taking a deep breath, fighting through pain, he twisted slightly and finally freeing a hand, fisted a hard jabbing punch under Macleod's ribs and was free.

Falling away from the wall, away from clutching hands, Methos reached hopelessly for a weapon. One on one he was no match for Macleod, he was lighter, his skills less well honed, less practised. He was reaching for a knife when a tackle took him down. He twisted, crashing into the floor, head and shoulders colliding sickeningly with something solid. Only fear kept him conscious and fighting. Two fingers headed for Duncan's eyes, but found his forehead, the hand then forced away so sharply, twisted so mercilessly, that a bone snapped dryly. Methos cried out. His only answer was a laugh so appallingly reminiscent that he shuddered, the nausea burning in his gut not simply from pain.

"Duncan..." Methos stuttered the name as automatically his hands blocked a move towards his throat. "You are Duncan Macleod... of the Clan Macleod...you are not...like...this..."

He found a hold and used it, levering until he had the possibility of escape. Somehow he used it, punching hard into the close face, scrambling away, right arm dragging useless at his side.

Clumsy, he reached for a kitchen knife from the block, the smallest one fitting into his palm, coming free as he turned, fear making him fast. But not fast enough. A casual twist of his arm had him gasping, sinking to the floor, diving into agony. Kronos had been right, he wasn't used to pain anymore.

Something that looked as if it was about to be proved yet again. The knife was in his hand, but his muscles refused to obey. He shuddered as Duncan pulled him upright, his arm thudding against something, making the world darken. He knew he was being carried him into the living area, cried out softly as he was dropped carelessly onto the bed. The knife was gone, dropped unheeded somewhere on the way.

Macleod had hardly broken a sweat. "There, we might as well be comfortable."

"Duncan..." Methos tried to crawl off the bed, but a booted foot placed heavily in his groin held him breathlessly still.

"Methos."

The word even had the inflection Kronos had always managed to bring to it. Methos tried again to reach the man who had been his friend. "Duncan, this isn't you!"

"No?" There was a smile spreading across Macleod's face, though it was hideously wrong there. "How do you know?"

"Because I know you. The Macleod I know wouldn't behave like this. He wouldn't..."

"Shut up!"

"Mac, I..." The boot kicked down, taking all thought away in a blinding flash of pain that had Methos clawing at the bed–clothes.

"You know nothing. You are nothing...Brother!" Duncan, eyes utterly cold, utterly devoid of anything but the dark glint of Kronos' victory, started to unbutton his own shirt, peeling the silk from his body and tossing it carelessly aside. Only then did he move his foot.

Released, Methos could do nothing but curl onto his side, his hands clutched between his legs. He was ice cold, shivering. After a moment, from somewhere he found the strength to look up, and saw Duncan standing over him, naked to the waist, his hair unbound around his shoulders. There was blood on his face, bruises already healing that Methos had no memory of inflicting. He tried again to reason, but the whisper was far too soft, "Macleod...?"

"Don't say anything."

A hand tried to weave its way into his hair to tug his head back, but it couldn't get a good enough grip. "Please don't do this."

"I told you to be quiet!" An open–handed slap reinforced the command, slamming Methos into the bed. Duncan slowly unbuttoned his pants, letting them fall to the floor, pushing his shorts down, stepping sideways and kicking the clothes away.

Methos stirred, blearily opening unfocused eyes. He tried what was meant to be fast movement, hoping to make it to the floor, to the door, anywhere that would offer escape. The idea was fine, but nothing worked, his muscles all turned to water, his equilibrium shot. Instead of being off the bed and gone, he was tripped, crunching hard to the floor. For a long moment he lay still, face pressed into the rug, dust and blood acrid in his nose; he was almost sobbing for breath. Then, very slowly, he turned, rolling awkwardly onto his back. He sifted slightly and, miracle of miracles, felt the knife he had dropped, hard as hope under his back.

Duncan though had one of his own, and a single slice ripped apart Methos' sweater, baring his chest, a careless ribbon of blood tracing the path of the blade. His jeans lasted a second longer, but the steel was sharp, and Duncan's hands strong, ripping the thick cotton apart to bare the skin underneath.

No longer afraid, for now he knew exactly what he faced, Methos retreated into the cold place he knew so well inside himself. He had been here too often to fight. He lay quite still, letting the hot gaze devour his body, seeing the reaction that brought a tear to the slit of Duncan's arrogantly erect cock. Methos closed his eyes in despair, turning his face away, his face wet with what might have been sorrow. It had all been over, yet now Kronos had to be fought all over again. Worse, there would be Duncan, when this was over and he was himself again, which he would be... Methos couldn't even begin to think of that.

The knife cuts were healing, but when Duncan dragged him over to the bed they opened again and Methos groaned helplessly, blood spilling as he was moved. Tethered by his own clothes tangled around his ankles, Methos let himself be limp, letting this dark shadow of Macleod work for its pleasure.

Methos was shoved carelessly onto the bed, one arm remaining twisted under his back, not that Macleod cared. He stripped the jeans away and straddled the still body, pressing a knife blade to one flat nipple. All Methos could smell was blood, and black, ruthless desire. It smelled of home...one he had never wanted to return to.

The blade cut down, making the corners of Macleod's mouth smile. "This was what you wanted, wasn't it?"

Resigned, Methos kept his own counsel.

"You don't have to say anything, I know...I've always known. From the day I found you as a slave and watched as you killed your master. You pretend to be different, but you're not." He pushed Methos' legs apart and settled there, his hard cock jabbing into the bruised mass of genitals. There was no lubricant handy, and it was clear he wasn't going to bother to find any. The knife skimmed lower, scraping skin as it passed, stilling against the curving line of ribs, just above where the concave stomach fluttered as Methos tried to breath. "You're a whore, Methos, the oldest whore in the world — and you're all mine!" His cock slid down, searching blindly. When Duncan closed his eyes, Methos twisted sharply, bringing the knife from behind his back with all his anger and pain and fear behind it, killing Duncan with a sure blow that took him straight in the heart.

Surprise was the single emotion on Macleod's face as he died. He coughed, then toppled slowly forward, his hair spilling haphazardly around them both. But it was the knife Macleod held in his own hand that upset all of Methos' calculations. Methos' eyes widened in disbelief, then he shuddered as the blade slid home, making him remember all over again exactly why he hated dying.

* * * * *

As so often in his life, pain was the first sensation he felt on waking. For a moment he was lost in time, unsure where he was, where he lay, or whose blood was drying on his skin. Unsure if he was a prisoner, a victor, a refugee, or simply lying bloodied and damned by less than simple pleasures. The images were all there, taking his breath away, taking their time to process across his thoughts as his body burned with healing.

With a cough he came truly alive, gasping as his body told him that it never got any easier; that he'd died often, recently, and that the pain was simply his due.

He remembered then. Kronos, a ghost at the feast, returning. Macleod dead, taken by Silas and Caspian. Except he had lived, survived, and all the grief had been rendered joyously to nothing, for Macleod lived.

As, maybe, in some vile way, did Kronos.

Methos opened his eyes, swallowing dryly, nausea making him cling to the soft cotton on which he lay. The world span wildly for a moment, then blessedly stilled. He groaned softly, wretchedly and finally tried to move, only then realising that more than weakness held him trapped. Macleod was lying, heavy and awkward, across his body, and the knife that had taken his own life was still embedded in his side. Pulling a trapped arm loose, Methos pushed himself free, sliding stiffly across the bed, trying to take only shallow breaths around the blade. Free from the pinning weight, he lay quite still, staring blindly at the ceiling. He was going to hate this, remembered the feeling all too well. It had to be done though. Awkwardly, he reached for the knife. Grasping the handle he almost blacked out again before, with a racking shudder, he quickly tugged it free, falling back, cursing without subtlety in a long dead language. He lay very still for a long time then, waiting for the pain to leave him in peace. After a while it did, and he breathed easily, licking dry lips.

Slowly, he propped himself on one elbow.

The knife was dark, his own blood still wet and glistening on the fine–honed steel. There would be little left of his clothes, quite clearly he remembered Duncan stripping them away, the knife cutting through cotton and skin with equal facility. He wondered if Kronos' memory had told Macleod what to do, how to bring most pain, how to enforce the present with the brutal weight of the past.

Maybe. Or maybe Duncan Macleod liked knives too.

It was an intolerable thought. Ridiculous as well. Though his hands around the knife were still white knuckled, his face grey. He stared at the slender blade, then, hard as possible, threw it, hearing it clatter away, oblivious to where it landed.

By his side, Duncan was growing cold, his body twisted onto one side. It must be close to midday, for the light pouring in from the windows to highlight the long limbs, the sleek muscles, was warm, bright. The long dark hair was wild, tangling across the still face. Close to hating himself, Methos reached out with an unsteady hand and slowly fingered strands away from the closed eyes, from the generous mouth.

It was cowardice to stay here. Cowardice and a pathetic hope that Macleod had felt something for himself, not just wanted Methos because he was influenced by a ghost. It would have been a fine thing, to be loved by this man. Oh — he had spoken of love, but that was of one friend for another, and that was nowhere near what Methos wanted from the Highlander. Nowhere near. Staying was hopeless, beyond sanity. Yet somehow he didn't rush to get up and leave.

A coward indeed. All the regrets were catching up with him. Not least that this man would never care, in any way other than for a friend. Methos touched the full lips with the tips of one finger, then bending down, kissed where he had touched, the caress bearing no more weight than a feather. His eyes closed, acrid burning behind them. He wouldn't weep. Wouldn't...

After a moment he sat up, perfectly controlled, and looked around. The room was a mess, as was he. Dried blood was everywhere, darkening the sheets, matted in his hair, on his skin. He reached up and touched his own face, feeling the blood there, thick as paint, so dry it crumbled away beneath his fingers.

If only he had learned how to appreciate the simple things; like morality and truth, like decent lovers who were untouched by darkness. He had tried, so often. He had loved Alexa, though the immediacy of her dying had allowed him to take the instant of love and run with it until she was gone. There had been no room for anything else there, not even sex beyond the most basic, as she had been too frail, too close to the place where the needs of the body had no meaning at all.

Alexa had been beautiful and lovely, fun and innocent. As an antidote to Macleod induced melancholy she had been perfect. Methos had regretted her death far more than almost anything else in centuries. And after it, there had still been Macleod.

Pushing the thoughts away, Methos crawled off the bed and groaned softly as his body straightened. He wanted a hot bath, settled instead for a beer. Pulling a robe, careless that he was quite probably ruining it, he padded to the kitchen and opened the fridge. There was Amstel or Bud. he settled for the european one and opened it. The kitchen was a wreck too, a great dent in one cupboard door that explained why his head had hurt so much. He rubbed one temple reminiscently and went back to the problem.

Duncan was taking a long time to come round. In fact he should have been awake long before, his body, less worn by repeated death, by lack of sleep, than Methos' should have come back to life almost at once. Instead he lay still, beautiful, curled half on his side. Methos stared at him, seeing Kronos, and shuddered.

The beer was cold, reassuring as he took a long mouthful. Kronos wasn't here, he was dead. There was a ghost possessing Macleod, one who in time would just go away. This was Duncan Macleod.

Methos put the bottle down and, quite circumspectly, knelt on the bed and pulled Macleod onto his back. Much of his skin was black with dried blood, there was enough for two mortal lives, after all. A knife was still embedded in his side. Methos reached forward tried to pull it free, but it clung with tenacity to Macleod's body. Methos tried again, with one hand flat on the strong chest for leverage. Success, though the blade slipped awkwardly and sliced through his own skin as well.

The cut was deep, and blood dripped immediately onto Macleod's body, just before their healing began. Methos shivered as both wounds slowly closed, the sight darkly fascinating. It still amazed him, this ability he had no control over. He still expected it not to work, for the wound to stay a wound, for the blood to flow and never cease until he was finally and truly dead. Instead he was an eternal Lazarus, walking away from every tomb.

The blade slid into flesh so easily. He ran it lightly up his arm, seeing the skin darken, flower, watching the well of life–force, feeling the itch as the skin closed over. He hardly had time to feel pain. Shallow cuts were always the same. To feel anything keenly, the knife would need to cut deep.

The point rested against his the palm of his hand. A little effort and it would pierce skin and sinew, sever tendons and break small bones. It would hurt, and for a while he would feel every drop of pain. He would feel...

Wide–eyed in fascination, Methos pressed the point down until the skin seemed to flower around it. Lost, he almost didn't realise that Macleod was waking until a hand brushed against thigh.

Shocked into reality, he was off the bed, reaching for his sword, holding it firmly in both hands, the edge now close to Macleod's throat. Breathless, he watched warily, waiting. After a long while the dark eyes opened, hooded with pain.

"Hello Macleod." If there was a question there, he didn't allow it to be heard.

"Methos."

"That's me." He watched Duncan focus on the blade, and frown.

"What..." Macleod blinked in confusion. "What happened?"

"Well, that is a good question. What do you remember."

Duncan considered, then his lip curled miserably. "Rage. And you, kissing you..."

"Yeah, you did that." Methos nodded. "And what else?"

"Nothing..."

"Ah."

"What happened?"

"Macleod, I'm not sure you want to know." Methos took a step back and let the sword fall to his side. "But we have a problem."

Duncan levered himself up until he was sitting, he surveyed the wrecked room with a frown of disbelief. Then his gaze went to Methos, seeing the robe, the blood it couldn't disguise. "Jesus! What did I do?"

"Not you, Kronos."

Macleod swallowed, and hesitantly recalled more, "I kissed you, even though I was angry. He...I...wanted you so badly, and you wanted me back. Didn't you?"

Methos heard the agony of doubt and couldn't refuse the truth. "Yes."

They held a long glance. "Then..." Macleod struggled to find what happened next. He could feel the warmth of Methos' lips against his own, the rage burning up as desire fought it and won. Then nothing... "Methos, tell me what I did?"

"You won't like it."

"I became him, didn't I." Never one to spare himself, Macleod took a deep breath. "I raped you."

"No. But you tried."

"Jesus!" Macleod buried his head in his hands.

Methos watched him, seeing a naked man in the depths of despair. Compassion brought him a hesitant step forward. Despite everything he did know that this was still Duncan Macleod, still the man he loved, wanted to sit close to, to hold. A knee on the bed took his weight, then he was there, touching from a distance a body tearing itself apart with tension. "Duncan?" Methos whispered the name softly. "It wasn't you..."

"No?" Macleod raised his head. "I remember cutting your clothes off." A hand went suddenly to the crossover of the borrowed robe, seeking skin, scars, though he knew there would be none. He backed off in shame as Methos ineptly controlled a flinch. "I nearly gutted you, didn't I?"

"Not you."

"Not me? What are you saying, that I am possessed?" Macleod's voice rose on the word.

"It had occurred to me. Kronos was very strong, very old."

"Older than you?"

"No, he was still young when he found me. I'm sorry, Duncan." Slowly, as if performing a ritual act, he reached out his hand and touched the broad stretch of Macleod's shoulder. The skin was warm again, life in full spate under his hand. He shivered slightly, almost hurt that such a meagre contact could provide such a vast well of reassurance. This was Duncan Macleod, no one else. Blinking, he remembered what he was supposed to be talking about and went on. "Unlike me, Kronos from his youth was a warrior, independent, powerful. He understood how to manipulate people — almost the same way Cassandra tries, though she had no luck with him. All those years of evil, of absolute control. I didn't understand what his quickening could do, I am very sorry."

"You really thought I could take him and not suffer any consequences? You must have had great faith in me."

"Yes."

"You know what? So did I." Macleod laughed harshly. "So don't blame yourself for that."

Methos had no easy answer, no glib explanations. He held his peace and fought the desire to draw his fingers through the loose strands of Macleod's dark hair. Sun was streaming in through the windows turning the dark mass brilliant with chestnut and gold lights. It was so unfair that he could still want Macleod, still desire him. Macleod as he had been before the Horsemen; before Kronos had taken defeat and turned it into victory. In another time and another place... somewhere Macleod wouldn't look at him and remember. He started when Macleod spoke again.

"I wonder when he'll come back?"

It was an impossible question. Methos straightened, his hand falling to his side. "Maybe he won't, you can assimilate him."

"Since when were you the optimist?"

"Since..." Methos sighed, and decided against saying anything that might be incriminating. "Since I needed a shower. I feel...disgusting." Macleod opened his mouth, but Methos stalled him. "And don't apologise again."

Macleod almost smiled. He looked down at his own body, seeing the blood, his own nakedness seemingly a surprise. His face took on an embittered cast. "I wish..."

"Don't! Nothing can be changed."

"You think I don't know that? When I asked you about Cassandra, you said she was one of a thousand regrets, well I have almost as many."

"We live and learn, we change in order to deal with the things we do, the things that happen around us. If we are lucky, life will go on regardless." He smiled self–deprecatingly. "Philosophy a la Methos."

"Better than some I've heard."

"Mmm." Methos stepped back off the bed. He wrapped his arms around his body, he asked, "Can I borrow some clothes?"

"Sure, but what happened..." Then Macleod saw them, a pile of blood–dark rags on the floor. He swallowed hard and raising his head, met Methos's gaze, questions in his eyes, none of which he could bring himself to ask. "Take whatever you want..."

"Thanks." Methos shrugged slightly. Then, turning on his heel, he walked away.

* * * * *

Stepping into the shower–stall, Methos slid closed the doors and turned the shower on, setting the water pressure onto high and sighing as it hit his body. He turned under the flow, letting the needle sharp points hit his head, his shoulders, his body, watching as the clean water touched him, then swirled away rust red with blood. It took a long time before it ran clear. Only then did he take the soap that Macleod used and wash himself, finding a sponge and scrubbing every inch of his body until he tingled, his skin pink.

The temptation was to stay where he was, to hide in the steam and the warmth, but that was impossible. For a start, Macleod would be wanting some hot water. Ruthlessly, Methos turned the shower off, and sliding back the doors stepped out. Brisk now, he dried himself, slipping his body into clothes that were borrowed, that bagged around his slighter frame. A quick towel of his hair, and he was done.

He paused at the door, one hand braced gently against the condensation–damp wood. A thousand thoughts fought in his mind, unease and indecision trailing around them. It had been easier before Macleod. When he had been alone with his demons, waiting for Kronos to come and end his life. For hundreds of years he had been solitary, reclusive from his own kind. Then Macleod had found him, and suddenly that life had shown itself empty.

He had a duty now to this man. A duty that meant he had to stay, to see the end of this through, to deny Kronos anything resembling victory.

There would be no escape until this was over. So the sooner it was all begun the better. Methos straightened his shoulders and opened the door.

Macleod had begun to tidy things up, there was a plastic sack filled presumably with what couldn't be salvaged, a pile of bed–linen all waiting for the wash. Methos walked past it and commented, "Was much ruined?"

"Not really." Macleod turned from where he was finishing re–making the bed. He had washed his face and hands at least, and put on a long green robe. He nodded in approval at what his companion was wearing. "You found something that fitted, then."

"Yes." Methos fingered the clothes, a dark grey sweater over old black jeans, the latter cinched in at the waist with a belt and rolled up once at the cuff above his bare feet. It felt strange to be wearing things he had seen Macleod in. Not unpleasant though. Not at all. "I'll get some more of my own stuff later."

"Okay." Duncan nodded, wanting to ask if that meant Methos was going to stay, but couldn't bring the words to his lips. He smoothed the last pillow into place, then slowly walked across to where Methos stood, looking very slightly lost. He stood in front of him, waited until the abstracted gaze lifted, and wide green eyes met his own.

Words were hopeless. Macleod reached forward and delicately touched his fingers to Methos skin, just where a pulse beat erratically under the jaw. He felt it under his fingers, hurrying, though Methos didn't move, and the green eyes only darkened, didn't look away.

They held still for the space of a dozen heart–beats, then Methos blinked, breaking the spell. "Go and get that shower, I'll see what I can do out here."

Duncan took his had back, and nodded. He looked around, distractedly. "I've thrown most of it away — you could take that sack out to the trash if you want?"

"No problem."

"Yeah." Macleod still paused though, his hands yearning to take the still figure into his arms. Instead he briefly rested his hand on a thin shoulder. If he felt the answering shudder he said nothing, just silently let the hand fall to his side, then walked away.

Alone in the wide room, Methos listened for the sound of the shower. Only then did he move, listlessly. Most of the destruction had been cleared, and if you hadn't known, it would be difficult to tell that a fight to the death had wrecked its way through the room not many hours before. The knives were gone, the swords put away. Probably just as well.

Put the garbage out. That was what Macleod told him to do. He looked down at his feet, wondering where his shoes were. In the end he couldn't be bothered, and, still barefoot, picked up the unwieldy sack and headed downstairs.

Outside, Methos was surprised to see that the day was well past its best. A sharp breeze whistled around his body and it was cold, despite the sun. Evening wasn't all that far away. Time had disappeared, folded in on itself. He wasn't even sure which day of the week it was. Not that it mattered. It never had, very much.

On his way back into the building he paused, sure he'd heard his name being called. Turning, he scanned the street, relaxing when he realised who it was. Waiting until the slow, halting walk brought the other man closer, he smiled in greeting, "Hello, Joe."

"Hello yourself." Joe Dawson gave his friend a top to toe inspection and frowned critically. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, more or less. Did Mac call you?"

"No." Joe tapped at the ground with his cane. "I thought I'd stop by, see how things were. I was wondering, did you have any trouble?"

"Trouble." Methos slid his hands into the jean pocket and stared at his toes. "I suppose you could say that." He laughed, though humour was clearly as alien concept. "You'd better come inside..."

He was silent all the way across the dojo to the elevator. Joe watched him, seeing him so withdrawn, so preoccupied was strange. He hardly looked up at all, his shoulders hunched, his hands deep in his pockets. "Adam..."

After a moment, Methos blinked and looked up. "Joe?"

"Mac came round to my place last night, he was looking for you. I guess he found you."

"I was here. At the time it seemed the sensible thing to do."

Dawson considered what was left unsaid behind the words, waiting for more explanation. None was immediately offered, so he asked outright, "But it wasn't?"

Methos gave a slight twist of his shoulders that might have been a shrug. "Probably, maybe...no."

"Is this to do with what happened in France?"

"Oh, yes." Methos nodded.

"Methos, is Mac all right?"

"He will be, I hope. Kronos has left more of himself behind than any of us would like."

"Mac asked me if I thought this was a Dark Quickening. I told him no, was I wrong?"

Methos pulled one hand out of a pocket and ran his fingers through his short hair. It was still damp. "I don't think so. I've never come across anything like this. But then Kronos was quite unique..."

"So's Macleod."

Intense, darkly shadowed eyes met Dawson's. "I know. That's why I'm here." An undefinable emotion shimmered across the high–boned face. Then Methos turned away, saying in a dry voice, "Come on, you can help tidy up."

Macleod was out of the bathroom and dressed by the time they reached the loft. He turned, raising a brow in surprise as Methos walked in with Joe. "Hello, what brought you over here?"

"My thumbs itched."

Macleod flinched. "Something wicked's about right. Maybe you should take up a new career as a psychic." He obliquely watched as Methos walked across to the kitchen, before turning his attention back to Dawson. "Anyway, come in and sit down."

Joe obliged him, taking a good look round as he settled in the high–backed leather chair. "Looks like you two had quite a party!" He received two glares for his trouble. "Sorry, I was trying to lighten it up a bit in here."

"Yeah, thanks Joe. But I don't think either of us is in the mood for humour." Macleod sat down opposite Dawson, in the farthest corner of the couch.

"What happened."

Macleod closed his eyes, then briefly shook his head. "I don't really know."

"Methos?" Joe called over to the kitchen, from where he could smell the beginnings of coffee.

"Don't ask me, I don't understand anything."

"Come on guys! This is me. What happened!"

"Kronos is what happened." Macleod let the words fall from his mouth, bitter as aloes. "Kronos... I let him take me over. I let him..."

"Shut up, Duncan!" Methos was striding across the room to stand close by where they sat, anger made him very pale, his hands fisted at his sides. "You didn't chose to let him do that, so don't talk such utter nonsense!"

"I should have been able to stop him."

"How? This wasn't a Dark Quickening, this was something else, some little surprise that Kronos had up his sleeve."

Joe watched them, seeing the wariness in Methos, the shame in Macleod. He no longer needed to ask exactly what had happened. Pity, for both of them, made him look away, wondering if he should be here at all.

Methos was continuing, in the voice of reason, "Duncan, you are not mad, you are not suddenly transformed into a psychotic. Not at the moment, anyway," he amended.

"Oh thanks for the vote of confidence. So, I just have to wait for him — for Kronos — to sneak up on me and turn me into one, do I!"

"Hey, excuse me interrupting, but I want to say something." They both stilled and turned to where Joe sat. "Yesterday you were mad as hell at everything, Mac. Next thing I know you've done something neither of you will talk about but that I'll presume had something to do with Kronos, right?" Two nods, one more definite than the other. "So, I would suggest, humbly as I'm able, that you calm down and stop letting your anger get the better of you. You might just not like what happens."

They thought it over for a second, then Methos turned away, heading back to the kitchen, saying coolly, "Sounds like good advice to me."

"But...I can't spend the rest of my life without getting upset occasionally. I'm not like that!"

"Well you might have to try doing something for a while."

Methos was clattering around in the kitchen, then he walked back, carrying a tray loaded with steaming mugs. "I could teach you to meditate."

"Oh, you're a great help, thanks a lot, swami."

Sliding the tray into the table, Methos sat down, choosing a place on the couch with Macleod, but in the opposite corner. He didn't meet Joe's eyes, just picked up his mug and curled his long legs up beside him. He sighed, very thoughtful. "Seriously, I do think Joe's right. You get angry, you lose control, Kronos pops up and takes over."

Macleod ran his hands down the cotton of the old sweatpants he was wearing. "I don't remember much about last night," he explained to Joe. Then he asked painfully, "Was I really him?"

"Yes." Methos looked away, then spoke softly, his low voice very controlled. "You spoke with his inflections, you used your body the way he did. When I looked in your eyes I saw him, not you."

"Hell..."

"Macleod." Methos paused, then it seemed as if he was going to reach out, but in the end his hand only made a small, ineffectual gesture of defeat. "It was better than if it had been you."

Methos was looking at him, grave and still. What he said was so clearly the truth that Macleod almost wanted to cry. He took a deep breath, and replied, his voice thickened, "Thank you."

A weak smile was his answer, then Methos turned back to his coffee.

Joe shifted uneasily, feeling as if his presence was an intrusion. He cleared his throat. "Mac, I promise you, when you were influenced by the Dark Quickening, it was different." Joe reached for his coffee, stirring in cream before settling back, waiting for the both to find their equilibrium. "With any luck, this won't need a holy spring."

"Mmm." Methos nodded unsteadily in agreement. "Which is just as well as, though I'm sure there must be something equivalent on this vast continent, I haven't a clue where to look for it."

"So what do I do?"

"Wait." Joe was definite. "What do you say, Methos?"

"The same, wait until he has been assimilated into you. You're strong enough to take him, or you wouldn't be yourself now and this would be worse than anything that had been before." Methos took a sip of coffee. "And I would probably be without my head."

Joe watched Macleod shudder. "But he's not. So you must have some control!"

"No, I had no control at all, you have no idea what..." Macleod broke off.

"No, I haven't because you won't tell me!"

"Joe, leave it." Methos ordered.

"Why? The more we all know about this, the easier it'll be to deal with."

"Will it? Okay, I survived by killing him, that's all it was. It seemed the sensible thing to do at the time." Methos shrugged, and putting his mug down on the table, sat back, wrapping his arms around his body. In the borrowed clothes his thin body looked all long bones; sticks bundled together. "He never threatened my life." Just my sanity... "And I don't think he will."

Joe watched him carefully, reading between the words. "Which one are you talking about here, Macleod or Kronos?"

Methos grimaced in distaste. "Both of them."

"So you don't think Kronos would want you dead, not even after you betrayed him?"

"No, I think he'd want me to suffer."

"Ah." Joe nodded to himself. "And Mac just wouldn't kill you." He looked thoughtfully at the mug full of congealing coffee. "So, what is needed here?"

Methos replied, quite firmly. "Time."

"Fair enough."

Macleod nodded. "Yeah, I have plenty of that."

But Joe was frowning. "You'll need more than just time, you'll need a minder, just in case." He looked at Methos.

"Oh, no." Methos slowly uncurled as he realised exactly what Dawson wanted. "What about you? You could do this."

"I can't do it, I need to be at the bar — half the staff are ill with some flu–bug, and the Blues festival starts next week. Methos..."

"Joe, I can't!"

"Why not?"

Methos opened his mouth to answer, but all the answers sounded puerile, even to his own ears. It was impossible though. How could he? It was wrong, he was wrong, when the ghost was Kronos. "But as it is me that Kronos wants, surely I'm not the ideal candidate?" he asked the question beseechingly.

Joe nodded. "You're not ideal, but lets be honest here — you're the only candidate. Unless you want to play blues for a couple of weeks?"

"No, you know I couldn't."

"That's settled then."

"But..."

"But?"

Methos looked from one man to the other. Joe, satisfied and content, Macleod miserable and remarkably quiet. "What do you say, Duncan?"

With very little animation, Macleod nodded. "I can see that this is the best thing to do. And yes, I'm sorry Methos, but Joe's right, I think someone should be here."

"What about Richie."

"I've no idea where he is."

"Amanda?"

Macleod smiled softly. "She's on her honeymoon with Corey. I don't think she'd come back to nursemaid me."

"So," Methos sighed resignedly. "That leaves me."

The human and the Immortal nodded at him.

"Hell and damnation." There wasn't really a choice. If only his belly didn't feel as if he'd been swallowing razor–blades. Methos stared hard at nothing. The presence of Macleod, so close to him, defied reason. It was ridiculous to love anyone so much, yet he did. Enough to stay, to risk another night like the one that had gone. If truth were told, he wasn't sure anything could have persuaded him to leave, though he had no inclination to tell either of the other men that little fact. Instead he nodded, finally raising his head, his face dispassionate. "All right, I'll stay."

"We don't have to be here, we can go somewhere else if you'd rather?"

"I don't know..."

"Somewhere warm." Joe suggested.

"Or I could take you to Scotland, if you don't fancy warm?" Macleod offered with wry helpfulness.

Methos muttered something under his breath, then called a halt to the humouring. "Okay, okay! Enough from the pair of you. I don't want to go anywhere else, we stay here."

"A decision!" Joe applauded. "And it means that you might get to come and hear some of the festival."

"Oh good."

"I knew that would cheer you up."

"Thanks, Joe."

"No problem, Methos!"

"Hah!"

Joe pushed himself up to his feet and stared down at the pair of them. "I'll come back tomorrow, check out how things are going. I guess you'll manage shopping and such?"

Methos smiled nastily, "Yes, Joe, we'll manage just fine."

"Good." Joe paused, seeing the seeming unwillingness in Methos, believing this wasn't what he wanted. Even thinking he understood why. Yet this was still the best solution from a strictly limited choice. At least Methos understood Kronos, would know if and when Macleod was in danger of slipping into that other, dangerous personality. Besides, just having Methos here might be all Macleod needed to hold on to his own personality. Hurting Methos was just about the last thing he would really want. Anyway, if they spent some time together then maybe they could work everything out, maybe end up less unhappy. Joe looked from one to the other, seeing each enclosed in his own world. Well, it would be interesting to see what they were like after this was all over. Make or break. That was it. He shook his head, and said, "Just call if you need me."

Methos nodded, his face without any sign of emotion. "I will."

Though Joe knew he was lying, he said nothing, just headed for the elevator. "Right, I'm off."

"Bye, Joe."

"Bye."

They waited in silence until the mechanism of the lift halted, and Joe was gone. Only then did Macleod turn, pale and serious. "Whatever he says, I should think I can cope."

"Maybe. I don't think we should leave it to chance though. Kronos liked the occasional mortal to torment — I don't want you arrested on rape charges..."

Macleod cursed softly. "No." He leant forward, ran a hand across his neatly tied back hair, then looked Methos straight in the eye, courage summoned and held in both hands. "But I don't want to rape you either."

"Trust me, Macleod, nor do I want that to happen." Weary beyond belief, Methos took a long breath. "But, better me than someone who might be killed. As long as you — or he — don't decide to take my head as a bit of post–coital merriment, we'll be fine."

"Thanks for the comfort."

"Mmm, I'm cheering myself up too. Come on, lets get some food in — there's nothing in your fridge I'd eat." He stood up, avoiding walking in front of Macleod. A few feet away he paused, looking down. "And maybe we should get to a mall — I need some clothes."

"Whatever, we've time enough."

Methos turned back slightly, a strange half–smile twisting his mouth. "Time enough... Come on then." He was heading for the elevator.

"Hadn't you better put some shoes on first?"

"Oh. I couldn't find them..."

"Here." Macleod reached under a chest and pulled out a pair of raggy sneakers. "Yours?"

"I wondered where they'd got to." Methos caught them as they were tossed to him. Then, balancing on one foot at a time, he pulled them on, not bothering to unlace them, steadfastly ignoring some dubious stains that mottled their fabric. "Right..." He looked around vaguely.

"What now?" Mcleod was pulling on a sweater.

"My coat, amongst other things it's got my wallet in it."

"On the hook by the door."

"Do you want yours?"

"No."

Methos stepped out of the hall, pulling his long coat on over the borrowed clothes. "No?"

"I'll be fine in this."

"But..."

"We're not likely to meet a challenge between here and the mall."

Methos gave him a look that clearly doubted such faith.

With a shrug, Macleod walked past him and summoned the elevator. "If the worst comes to the worst, I can always borrow your sword, can't I?"

"Er, Yes..."

"That's all right then. Come on."

Curiously obedient, Methos went.

* * * * *

As shopping was neither man's favourite occupation, the expedition was conducted without any wasted time — no browsing, no loitering in aisles they had no interest in making a purchase from, and no window shopping. Food was chosen at random, alcohol by the same means, very little was said apart from occasional deliberation over brands and labels. While Macleod went off to buy some things on his own, Methos quickly bought himself underwear, a couple of pairs of black Levis, boots, various t–shirts and two fisherman's style sweaters, thankful for the modern invention of the credit card. A few other bits and he was done and ready to meet Macleod back at the car at the prearranged time.

Despite the fact that none of this had taken too long, it was still a few hours later, and quite dark, when they returned home.

Macleod turned off the ignition and sighed the contented sigh of a man at the end of an ordeal. Methos smiled, "I thought I hated shopping, but you're worse than me!"

"Hell, I'd pay someone to do it for me, except I don't like having servants."

"Paying someone to do something for you isn't necessarily putting them in servitude." Methos climbed out of the car, closing the door gently.

"No. But I still feel happier."

"Does that mean you do all your own cleaning?"

"Yeah."

"And decorating?"

"Un–huh." Macleod had the trunk open as Methos strolled round the side of the car. "I even tote my own bails."

"Subtle, Macleod, subtle." Methos reached into the car and dragged out a large paper sack. "Why is all this, were you ever in service?"

"No, but it doesn't mean I can't sympathise."

"Suppose not." A few carriers got pushed into one, and Methos straightened, laden.

"Were you really a slave?" The question was quite soft, almost muffled where Macleod was still head–first, rummaging in the trunk.

Methos had been expecting the question. He answered warily, "Yes."

"And have you owned anyone since?"

Methos sighed. "You know the answer to that one, Macleod."

"I still don't know how you could, not after having been one." He stood up, serious, oblivious to the unsuitability of where they were having the conversation.

"It was a long time ago, the world was built on slave–ownership. Anyway, I didn't exactly reason it out."

"No."

Methos watched as Macleod walked up the steps to the dojo. Anger made a nerve tick in his jaw. "I'll tell you this though, Duncan Macleod — I never treated any slave I owned the way my masters treated me!"

Pushing the door open, holding it there with his foot, Macleod turned his head back and stared down to the street. He opened his mouth to say something, then stilled. Below him, Methos had turned on his heel and was scanning around, his parcels dumped on the floor, his coat billowing open in the night breeze. But the feeling of another Immortal's presence was gone, almost as soon as it had struck them both. After a moment, they relaxed, and with a frowning look at Macleod, Methos quickly picked up his packages and was taking the steps two at a time.

"Come on, Duncan. Get inside."

The large form still blocked his way. "I wonder who it was."

"Nobody I want to see. Come on!"

Macleod gave way, still looking over his shoulder, grumbling, "I like to know who's around."

"I know you do, but personally I'm not interested in anyone who doesn't want to be formally introduced." Methos kicked the door closed behind him, and sighed in relief as Macleod set the locks and the alarm. "Great. Now let's get all this away." He walked off, pushing through the swing doors.

They both took the stairs, Methos just ahead of Macleod. Inside, Macleod dumped his bags down in the kitchen and began to sort out their contents. He nodded as Methos put his down. "What do you want for supper?"

"Anything."

"That's helpful." Duncan was packing the fridge with fresh produce, his body dark against the interior light. "What about an omelette?"

"Fine, I'll cook tomorrow."

"Even share of the labour?"

"No slavery here, Macleod." Methos walked away beginning to sort through the things he had bought.

He should have been suspicious of the silence which followed him. After a moment though the back of his neck tingled and he turned, a grey sweater in one hand, a look of enquiry on his face. He gestured resignedly. "Okay, Macleod, I'm sorry, it was a joke."

"No..." Macleod was shaking his head. "That wasn't what I was thinking."

"What then." Suspicion thinned Methos' lips.

"I was thinking about what you said the other night." He closed the fridge door, shutting the light off. "How long were you a slave."

"Long enough."

"Yeah, I'm sure a day would be long enough." Macleod popped two beers, and walked across the room. "Here." Their fingers brushed as the bottle exchanged hands, though neither of them acknowledged the contact.

"Thanks."

"So, how long?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Curiosity." Macleod shrugged.

Methos took a swig of the Becks, wiping his mouth on the back of one hand before saying anything. "I don't really remember."

"Who owned you?"

"Bloody hell! Macleod, what is this?"

"I told you..."

"Shit!" Methos turned and sat down on one of the couches, carefully examining the bottle in his hands. He asked hollowly, "Is it that you don't believe me?"

"I believe you. I'm just trying to understand you as well."

"I see." Methos picked at the label, loosening a corner. When he spoke it was as if he was recounting legend, one he didn't quite believe in. "Macleod, I was born in a place I can't remember, to a mother I can't recall. I lived a long time as a chosen of the gods, then they disowned me, and I travelled south, into warmth and sunshine, and slavery. A warrior owned me, then a goddess, though I never actually met her personally you understand."

He sighed, then went on, his voice changed, the mockery dead, leaving only a story woven, warp and weft, from pain. "My last master was an Immortal mountebank, a wizard without power. He made spells without substance to please the foolish and used my body as proof of his skill. I was his secret. By day I was his servant, collared and chained, by the evening I was his miracle." Methos blinked, looking away. "I lost count of the times I was killed, or the ways. I made him wealthy though. Even in Babylon, which was after all a fabulous city, a place of gold and jewels and everything a man could imagine, he became a rich man, possessing everything his greed could desire. Except after a while he only desired me. You see," his eyes flicked to Macleod, then away again, unable to look at him. "He began to enjoy my death for its own sake, and I would lie in his bed knowing that if he wanted me, then he would kill me. He said it was the sweetest pleasure he had ever known, feeling me die as he fucked me." His voice stilled, leaving the room in absolute quiet. "So, does that help you understand? I hope so — it's never given me the least bit of help."

Macleod shivered, the room suddenly very cold. "I'm sorry..."

"I didn't tell you so you'd be sorry! Anyway, after Babylon I found Kronos, so things only got better."

The bitterness in the low voice was too much. Duncan moved, was sitting at his side, seeing the tension that made the taut body shiver. "I wasn't prying, I just didn't realise..."

"How do I make you understand — it really was a different world!"

"It's just, that you're so different now!"

"I'm thousands of years older! I changed!" Methos let Macleod take the bottle away, immediately folding his arms as if cold. "Not completely though. You know, I watched Caspian strangle that doctor and scarcely managed a qualm. It was messy, and I couldn't believe the others were so turned on by it, but basically it didn't matter to me whether he deserved it or not."

"He did. Anyway, you needed to survive, you couldn't have taken on all three of them."

Methos turned his head as if Macleod had stated something wildly outrageous. Suddenly he was close to laughter, closer to hysteria. "You can say that, now, after... Fuck it, if you had said that to me a few weeks ago I might not have been so worried about trusting you!"

"I didn't understand," Macleod answered miserably. All the incipient laughter was gone from his companion, leaving the narrow face before him quite bleak. Macleod stared into wide eyes, seeing for the first time that their dark bracken–green was ringed with smoky black. He'd seen Celtic eyes like that, eyes that saw more than the past, less than the future. He shivered again, and tried to collect his thoughts. "I still don't really understand...but I'm trying."

"I would have told you, I wanted to. Then Cassandra came upon us, and I couldn't tell you anything."

"I would have fought him, you know, without the games."

"They weren't games, unless you have ever gamed for your life." Methos watched bleakly as Macleod took hold of one of his hands, his skin was warm, calloused from the swords. Was he to be offered everything he wanted too late for it to be of value? "Macleod..."

The dark head dipped, and Methos felt a soft kiss placed on his hand, then Macleod was gone, walking away, asking. "What did you say you wanted for supper?"

Miserable, Methos sat where he was. "I don't mind."

"Oh, omelette, I remember."

"Whatever..." Methos looked at the palm of his hand, feeling the kiss again. It should have been wonderful, amusing maybe. Instead he was cold as ice, shock numbing his nerves, he closed his eyes and remembered all too vividly the first time Kronos had kissed him, had wooed him without aggression. Then the kiss had brushed his hand, been tucked into his palm in just the same way. So, was the understanding from Macleod, or from Kronos playing games? He couldn't think about it, couldn't. Or all the hope would dissolve like water under a desert sun. Instead he picked up his beer and drank.

* * * * *

The food was undoubtedly good, omelette with emmental and chives, crisp salad and fresh coleslaw, bread that had been warmed, fruit to follow. Methos watched Macleod pierce a hole in a ripe mango and suck the golden pulp. It was a marginally less messy method than his own, which was to slice the fruit ruthlessly then eat chunks with his fingers. Afterwards they cleared the dishes, washed and wiped, leaving the kitchen spotless. Macleod settled with a book and Methos wondered where he was to sleep. For some reason it was a difficult question to broach.

He leant against the back of a chair, unsure. Then asked, curious, "What are you reading?"

Macleod looked up, then turned the book so Methos could see the cover, a William Blake pen and wash drawing of an angel. "Have you read it?"

"I ought to have known you wouldn't be reading the latest Jackie Collins! No, Milton never was my cup of tea." Methos made a face and sat down. "All that insular Christianity."

"Adam falling..."

Methos looked up suspiciously, expecting somehow mockery. "Lucifer fell, Adam was cast out."

"They both made their own choices though."

"Did they? Maybe.... I wonder if Lucifer would have doubted as much as Milton makes him — you'd need a hell of a lot of self–confidence to tell God to bugger off in the first place."

"Did you?"

"Did I what, tell God to bugger off?"

"Mmm."

"Pick a God, any God..." Methos mimed fanning a pack of cards, then let his hands fall into his lap. "Well, for a start, any Gods I knew then were worlds away from your Christian one. They were far more interested in blood sacrifice than simple ethics." He tilted his head, eyes narrowing with inward amusement, as he realised what was really being asked. "And Macleod, I was never an angel, of any sort."

"Or knew a woman called Eve?"

Methos laughed out loud, "Never one who waved an apple at me!"

Duncan was smiling too. He gave the book a small shake. "It's a good story though."

"Mmm."

"It is!"

"I suppose so, but I always feel sorry for the serpent."

"For Lucifer? Why, because he was fulfilling his own nature?"

"Of course." Methos shrugged. "Where would your God be without the threat of Hell, without a villain — a Judas in every story."

Duncan nodded wryly. "I know, forgotten most likely."

"Just like Mithras and Cybele and a thousand others. The book's fine, Macleod, the story is great, but that's all. Oh, and I quite like the idea of a Garden of Eden, even if it didn't exist."

"Shame really."

"Yes, all that myth taken so literally."

"You're a myth." Macleod closed the book and raised an expectant brow. "Amongst our own kind..."

"And look where that got me!"

"Caught up with by Kronos."

"A delightful fate!"

"Do you have to mock everything?"

"Show me an easier way, Macleod, and I'll consider it. Now tell me, do we toss a coin for the bed or are you going to let the guest sleep in comfort?"

"Well, we could share the bed, it is big enough."

Methos stared hard at him. "Okay, Macleod, do you really think that's a sensible idea, or is that just Kronos talking?"

With a start of surprise, Macleod closed his eyes, then nodded. "Sorry."

"Until you absorb his essence completely, he'll resonate for a while."

"As long as that's all he does." Macleod winced, then made a decision. "I'll sleep downstairs in the dojo, I can make a bed up..."

"No." Methos stood up with a long–suffering sigh. "I'll take the floor."

"Why?" Macleod was on his feet as well, a deep frown lining his forehead. "At least I'll be far enough away down there."

"No you wouldn't. And besides, I wouldn't be able to hear if you went out..."

"Oh."

"Exactly." Methos nodded. "No midnight excursions for you — and if you want to jog in the morning, take me with you."

"But you hate running!"

"I hate early mornings as well..." He turned away, beginning to pack the days acquisitions into a duffle–bag bought for the purpose. "But I'll cope. I don't suppose you've got anything resembling an air–bed?"

"No. Though there's the practise mats, you could make a pile of them."

Methos wrinkled his nose in distaste. "No thanks, I've smelled them. I'd rather make do with the floor, I've..."

"...slept in worse places."

They both smiled, as if in conspiracy.

Macleod walked across the room, opened a chest and pulled out a quilt. "If you sleep in the office, it'll be warmer."

"I'll see." Methos took the thick cover and slung it over one shoulder. Then he looked expectantly at Macleod. "Pillow?"

"Oh, yeah." He pulled one of his bed, holding it in his arms as he walked back across the room. He stood in front of Methos for a moment, head bowed, studying the cotton's weave. Then he looked up. "Thank you for staying."

Awkward with embarrassment, Methos reached for the pillow. "Duncan, don't go on about it!" Their hands met, and Macleod's fingers wouldn't let him go. "Macleod..."

"Methos..."

A thumb was rubbing the side of his hand, just dipping into the palm at the apex of each stroke. Methos gritted his teeth as reaction shivered through his body, knowing that Macleod had to have felt it too, wondering if by any possible chance it would be read as revulsion. He tried to back away, but was held. He straightened, narrowed gaze sharpening. This didn't feel like Kronos, but as it couldn't be Macleod.... "Duncan, don't do this."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Well, whatever it is you're not doing, stop it!" Methos finally freed his hand a took a step backwards. "Who are you?"

"Duncan Macleod..." Methos watched as he took a deep breath. "...of the clan Macleod."

"My point exactly."

Macleod turned away, wide shoulders slumped. "Go and sleep, I won't bother you."

Methos hesitated, then, when the other man steadfastly kept his face averted, he nodded to himself, telling himself this was for the best. "Good night, Duncan."

"'night."

There wasn't anything else to do. Methos stopped off at the fridge for a bottle of water, then stepped into the elevator. Macleod was standing still, leafing through the pages of his book.

Paradise lost, indeed.

Not even the sound of the gate slamming down made Macleod turn. Methos pushed the button to descend.

Lucifer fell but Adam was pushed. But Adam Pierson knew he hadn't been pushed. He was falling, had fallen, long ago, if truth were seen square on. Fallen from grace — if he had ever been in such a God–given state. He had far more in common with Lucifer than that first, mythical Adam, not least in the shadowy nature of his own desires, his own pride. No light, but rather darkness visible...he quoted to himself. John Milton, damn him, had said it all so well.

Realising he'd arrived, Methos gave himself a mental shake. Pulling up the gate he walked into the high, echoing space of the dojo and muttered uncivil comments under his breath. It was dark and chilly, not an ideal place to choose to sleep — not that he had exactly chosen it, Macleod's bed would still have been his first choice, except he had no desire for a threesome. Not with Kronos, anyway. For a moment he considered the office, which would indeed be warmer, but decided against it. If Kronos did appear in the night, then the enclosed space would be difficult to fight in.

Not that he would need to. Macleod had it all under control. Of course he did.

Stripping down to his boxers, Methos wrapped himself in the generously sized quilt, pummelling the pillow until it was comfortable under his head. He settled. At least his toes were covered, that was something to be thankful for. Methos shifted around for a bit, then stilled again. Filtered streetlights made the dojo a strange place of shadows. Reassuringly, his sword lay close at hand.

It was strange to settle down in such a big room, a bit like sleeping alone in a dormitory or a great, abandoned hall. The wall bars stretched above his head and the few free–standing pieces of equipment loomed around him, their purposes shrouded by the lack of light. He'd never found a gym he'd liked, and this one wasn't about to change that. Once, he'd goaded Macleod here, pushed him past the point where he was sparring, made him fight. And lost, as he knew he would. The remembered feel of the Katana against his neck could still give him pause; death a hair's–breadth away. Lust shimmering closer even than that.

If only Macleod had seen, or if he had seen, had responded. He had hardly been opaque about the matter. See me, Macleod, I'm on my knees...

It wouldn't have taken a genius to work out what he was offering. And though Methos wouldn't exactly have termed Macleod a genius, he was hardly an simpleton, either.

"Bloody Scot..." Methos muttered miserably to himself, then turned on his side and determined to go to sleep. Which, much to his own surprise, he did.

* * * * *

PART II

He woke to the smell of coffee tickling his nose. Opening sleep–gummed eyes he peered myopically over the covers.

"I thought you might like tea, but I wasn't sure, so you got coffee, all right?"

Methos focused. Macleod was sitting on the floor by the makeshift bed, cross–legged, clean and shiny, his hair damply draped around his shoulder, dressed in soft grey cotton jeans and an open knit sweater. He looked rested, easy, ridiculously awake.

"Would you rather have tea? I can make some instead..."

Methos roused himself, working a hand loose from under the cover, shifting so he was half sitting, back propped on the wall, quilt pulled up around his waist. A T–shirt might have been a good idea along with the boxers; it was more than faintly disquieting to be so naked, even though this was Macleod and he was paying no attention whatsoever. "Coffee's fine." He cleared his throat, "Thanks."

"It's a lovely day."

"Oh, good." Methos reached for the mug, picking it up and blowing across the surface before taking a cautious sip. Perfect. "You seem to have slept well."

"I did. I dreamed a lot, but I think most of them were my own."

"That's a good sign." Methos yawned, blinking blearily at his mug. "I didn't even dream, I don't think I moved all night." He still felt tired, felt as if he could have slept for another eight hours.

"You must have needed it."

"Mmm." Methos was drinking his coffee in small mouthfuls, savouring the taste.

"What do you want to do today?"

Sleep. He shrugged, shoulders pale, bones anatomically clear under the smooth skin. "Have you any suggestions?"

"Breakfast first, then I thought maybe a movie later this afternoon. They're showing L'Atalante down at the rep house."

"No thanks." Depressed French visions of lost love weren't quite what he was in the mood for. "What else?"

Macleod searched his memory. "All the new stuff. Oh, and I think Mon Oncle might be on..."

"Dubbed or subtitled?" Methos asked ingenuously.

Macleod laughed, "Just be thankful there's no dialogue."

"I wondered if you'd seen it, though I ought to have known the amount of time you've spent in France. Okay, Mon Oncle it is — I don't know about you, but I haven't seen it in years." And I could do with a laugh.

"Get up then, I'll start breakfast." With a graceful economy of movement, Duncan was standing. "The shower's all ready for you."

"Thanks."

Macleod stood where he was for a moment longer, then reaching down he took Methos' empty mug and, with a quick smile, was gone.

Methos curled himself back under the covers, closing his eyes, shutting out the morning light. How many days of this was he going to have to endure? Too many, for certain. Macleod had looked utterly desirable, smelling of clean skin scented with something lemony. His muscles shift so sensuously when he moved, it was like watching the surface of the ocean where the water was deepest. It would have been so easy to reach out, touch him... Impossible though. Methos bit the pillow under his head. Perhaps if he thought of it as an ordeal, he'd undergone enough of them in the past.

With a grunt he pushed back the covers, despite the sunlight the air was cool against his skin. The idea of a hot shower was extremely enticing.

A day spent Macleod–sitting couldn't be that bad, could it? They only had to do nice, normal, everyday things together — go to the movies, eat, have a drink at Joe's place. Then it would be night again, and then another day, and if all went well, then in a week he could leave.

Though this time it might take more than a couple of months in the Himalayas to sort his head out. Not to mention his body.

Uncurling he climbed out of the nest of bedding, stretching his kinked back. A week. No way could this take longer than a week. So, it had all better be sorted out soon. With that determined thought, he began getting ready.

He showered quickly, soaping his body with little attention, standing under the water only long enough to be clean. Drying off on one of Macleod's enormous and sublimely soft towels, detecting Amanda's hand in their purchase, he dressed himself, black jeans and a dark grey T–shirt under a sweater the colour of the sea at night. A quick check in the mirror and he was ready to face the world.

Or at least Macleod.

He sauntered out, determinedly casual, and sat himself down in the leather chair. Tension made him sigh softly. Hell, he had been fine after the shower, now, back here with Macleod, he could barely relax. It was ridiculous. He put his feet up on the coffee table and closed his eyes, trying to will the tautness from his limbs.

"I suppose at least you've only got socks on."

Eyes still closed, Methos wiggled his sock–covered toes at where Macleod was getting breakfast ready. "You mean you'd shove my feet off here if I had boots on?"

"I was hoping that it you had boots on you wouldn't have them propped on a priceless antique."

Opening one eye, Methos peered at the table in question, dismissing it with a curl of his lip. "It's hardly a hundred years old!"

"Old enough. Not everything can be prehistoric."

"No, but these things were made to be used, and there's plenty of wear in it yet."

"Luckily for it..." Macleod suddenly changed the subject. "Come on, food's ready."

Methos lazily stood up, finding a semblance of ease from somewhere. It was warm enough in the loft, too warm for the clothes he was wearing. Before going to sit at the counter he pulled off his sweater, leaving it draped over the back of the chair. He wasn't hungry. Not at all.

Yet somehow breakfast was delicious; oatmeal biscuits with honey–poached apricots and creme fraiche. Methos finished his plateful, considering that after a week of this at least his digestive system would be thankful, and maybe if it was thankful enough then it would stop throwing back at him nearly everything he ate. That would be quite pleasant. It certainly showed no sign of misbehaviour at the moment.

Over the meal the two men had discussed nothing more than food, the atmosphere constrained, though not exactly tense. They were careful of each other, unduly concerned with every sentence, every word. Afterwards, Methos cleared the plates, while Duncan settled on the couch with a tall pile of unopened post.

The kitchen tidied, there was nothing else for Methos to do. He wandered back into the living area, not quite sure where to put himself. He needed to get out, to find some fresh air and blow away some of the memories. It would do Macleod good too.

He looked at the pre–occupied Highlander and sat down, waiting, watching as the letters were opened, some discarded, some added to a heap of things clearly to be dealt with at a later time. Methos didn't disturb him, just sat quietly, watching. After a while, the dark eyes raised to him, questioningly. Methos shrugged, as if in apology, then asked, "Before we go to the movies, how do you fancy a walk? We could go down to the river, maybe have some lunch at the new sea–food place that's there."

Macleod nodded. "Sounds like a good idea to me, you want to go now?"

"No." He answered hastily, hands miming pushing Macleod back. "Finish that, I can read for a while, no problem."

"Thanks — there's some bills I'd really like to get paid."

"Sure, I understand."

"Great. It won't take long."

Methos nodded, watching as the Macleod began to tear open another envelope. His hands were so sure, not particularly elegant, but certain, skilled. What would it be like to be touched by them kindly, to be stroked, loved? Without Kronos to add a leavening of bitterness, he would be kind, attentive. Amanda wouldn't keep returning otherwise; a pretty face and a fabulous body wouldn't be enough for her. Though the face was very pretty, and the body undeniably...

Methos stood up suddenly, and went over to where his bag was parked on the long pine table at the side of the room, rummaging inside it for a moment. Then, book in hand, he sat in one of the wooden chairs, where he couldn't quite see Macleod, where he couldn't quite be seen. His mouth was dry, and he hid, sure that such blind need could only be blatantly exposed on his face.

For the sake of his own equilibrium, he was glad that Macleod was so engrossed in his papers.

After a little while, Duncan's voice made him jump, "What are you reading?"

What was he reading? Oh, yes. "Herodotus, he's always good for a laugh."

"Where did you get it?" Duncan frowned, leaning forward, trying to see the cover until Methos held it up for him. "It's not mine."

"No. I bought it yesterday."

"You can take anything off the shelves here you might fancy. you know."

"Thanks."

"No problem. I know there's nothing worse than being stuck without anything to read."

"Yeah, thank goodness for the world of the mass–produced paperback." Methos waved exhibit A in the air.

"At least the twentieth century has some good things going for it."

"Macleod, I never knew you were nostalgic for the past."

"I'm not, not really. I just wish sometimes that progress would slow down. I don't know, it just gets harder to appreciate things. Half the time you discover a new invention, then before you can really appreciate it, it's outmoded, outdated and selling for pennies down at your local thrift store."

Methos nodded, agreeing. He was also determined to continue the conversation as Macleod was putting so much effort into it. Not that the effort showed that much, but if you listened it was there. "At least you can catch up that way."

"No you can't, because there's so much else to enjoy. I love CD's, I've no desire to go back and discover 8–Track, even though I missed it at the time."

"No, they took up too much room for a start." Methos shifted in the hard chair, listening to the wood creak, turning sideways to almost face Macleod. "I like this century, I love the speed of travel, the standards of hygiene..."

"Efficient plumbing — a modern wonder."

"That's what you think!"

"What, don't tell me there was efficient plumbing way back when!"

"Knossos had flush–toilets — though after the last earthquake the trick of that was lost. The Romans had central heating, hot water, sewers, daily baths — just because the Barbarian hordes just weren't interested in preserving any of it doesn't mean it wasn't there."

"I can't imagine Goths worrying about cleanliness," Duncan mused.

"Oh, they had their own standards."

Macleod's voice was dark, amused, "Standards? How upsetting — you'll be telling me next that Vandals liked a nice refreshing bath before supper."

"And slippers warming by the hearth when they got home from a hard day's pillaging? Maybe in their own way." Methos shook his head, amusement crinkling his eyes as Macleod laughed softly. He was still chuckling as he went back to his papers.

An hour or so later, engrossed in a description, wildly inaccurate, of Nile wildlife, Methos only slowly became aware that Macleod was saying his name. "What...?"

"I said, I've finished, do you want to go out?"

"Yeah, sure!" Methos hurriedly put down his book and stood, stretching to ease the knots in his spine. He ached, for no particular reason, except perhaps for an excess of tension. Dismissing it, he tried to lighten his own mood. "Did you know that the hippopotamus has a mane and tail like a horse?"

"Huh?"

"According to this revered historian, that is."

Macleod tried to conjure the image, quirking a smile at the image picture he saw of a hippo with a wig on. "No, can't say that I did." He pointed to the book. "Is that what he really says?"

"Yep."

"Is the rest of it just as factual?"

"Better."

"No wonder you were enjoying it."

"It cheers me up — every time."

"Perhaps I should give it a read."

"Be my guest — though for some of it you might just need to have been there to understand." Methos was slipping on his coat.

"You'll have to fill in all the relevant details then, won't you." Jacket on, Duncan was in the elevator cage, waiting as Methos joined him."

"Sure, anytime you want — and what I don't know I can make up, I'm good at that. It's a long book though, it might all take some time."

Macleod blinked, his eyes fixed certainly on Methos' abstracted, averted face. "A thousand and one nights? Could be fun." He pulled the gate down and started the mechanism.

With a sigh that closed his eyes, Methos completely missed the look that was aimed at him. "Yeah, just call me Sheherazade."

"Ok, Sherry, after you!"

Methos blinked, sure that he was mistaken, and that Macleod wasn't really flirting. He couldn't be. Risking a sideways glance he caught the tail end of a look as Macleod opened the screen. His stomach fell giddily away.

He walked out into the dojo, quite bemused and utterly enchanted. It was a delight to think that Macleod might want him here for more than just what he had come to think of as the exorcism process. Delightful and daunting all at once. He trailed Macleod out to the car. What was he to think? Do? Nothing as yet, that was certain. But, soon. After Kronos, after Macleod had forgiven himself, then... Methos walked lighter, allowing himself a degree of hope for the first time in longer than he cared to remember.

* * * * *

Duncan turned the ignition off and pushed open his door, climbing out to stare at the river. It was good down here, the air smelling clean and fresh, especially now they had cleaned up the water and the area no longer stank of rot and refuse. He turned to his companion, catching him staring just before he looked away, pretending interest in the skyline. The breeze was ruffling his short hair, making Macleod wonder what it would feel like under his hand. Soft, textured like rough silk. He must have touched it at sometime, though he had no memory of it, unless the memory wasn't his. Though Kronos didn't seem the type to run his fingers caressingly through his lover's hair. Not unless it was as prelude to something nasty.

"What's the matter, Duncan?"

Macleod shook himself There was no point brooding. "Nothing. Which direction do you fancy?"

"Well, if you still like the idea of that restaurant, we'd better go up–stream."

"Fine."

"Did you check what time the movie starts?"

"Yeah, four on the dot."

"Time for lunch, a gentle stroll and then the movies — perfect." Methos closed his eyes, tilting his face to the weak sun for a long breath, before opening them and grinning. "Come on then."

Macleod watched him walk off, long coat billowing around his legs, hands firmly deep in its pockets. He was so self–contained, so contemptuous of any approach that went beyond the simple level of friendship. And he offered that to so few, just Joe and himself. The carapace of pride and mockery put off any but the most determined. If he was lonely, it showed in his arrogance. The only times Macleod had ever seen him utterly at a loss were after Kronos had appeared, and then really only once, when he had wept as if his soul had been torn loose from his body after killing Silas. Not even Kronos' memories told him why that had been so devastating. Maybe one day, Methos would explain himself. One day, when they could be more than friends. Macleod had truly hated very few people in his life, but Kronos was one of that select list. He hated him for what he had done to Methos, for what he had done to any hope there might have been for an easy relationship between them. An easy relationship — the euphemism made him smile. Love, reciprocated, was what he had wanted. Now he would almost settle for seeing Methos at ease again in his presence, though in truth he still desperately wanted more. One day it might still happen. One day when Methos had forgiven him, and he had forgiven himself.

"Come on!" Twenty yards away, Methos turned on his heel, walking backwards to call out, "Or have you changed your mind?"

"No. I want Sea Bass for lunch!"

"I ought to have known it was your stomach that was egging you on."

Macleod jogged to make up the distance between then, slowing to a walk as Methos turned around, stepping forward again. "Have you eaten here — what's it called — before?"

"Tagliani's, and nope, I haven't. But I hear that it's good — Joe liked it anyway — and at least it'll have a nice view."

"Joe recommended it did he?"

"Mmm, said he came here opening night — some sort of trade freebie."

"Lucky him."

"He didn't seem to think so. He loved the food, but got cornered by some other bar owner who wanted to talk shop all night. If it had been Blues talk he might have enjoyed it, but..."

"Not bar–talk."

"You know Joe, he'd rather have teeth pulled!"

"I'm surprised he spared enough attention to enjoy the food."

"That's what made me think it must be good."

"Aha! Well deducted, Holmes."

"Thank you, Watson."

Macleod had settled into a pace that seemed to suit the other man, their stride easily matching, Methos legs as long as his own. It was good to be outside, to be together with him. As long as he concentrated, the memories stayed away. It was getting easier by the hour to see around them, easier to deal with, Kronos fading as he was accepted into Macleod's own memories. It was even getting easier to see around the issue of Methos' past, his willing participation in so much that made Macleod's skin crawl. Of course, there was incentive... It was difficult to be in love with a man you thought you despised.

"Here we go..." Methos turned off the path, taking some steps up that led to a chrome and glass building, quite at odds with the converted warehouses around them.

Macleod stayed where he was, looking up. He was clearly unimpressed. "It looks like an architect's vision of a bank."

"It could be worse..."

"How?"

"It might look like an architect's vision of a restaurant. Come on." He was pushing at the door, smiling over his shoulder.

Macleod was smiling too, amusement making him shake his head. He followed Methos inside, resigned to overpriced, overcooked nouvelle cuisine.

Stunningly, he was quite wrong.

The food was mouth–wateringly good, served by a charming waitress who was clearly dazzled by each man in turn. Flirting his way through the menu, Methos ordered for himself, and Macleod settled on the same. They wouldn't be able to taste each others' meals that way, but at least there would be no sulking if one dish turned out miles better than another.

Not that there was such a problem. Replete, Duncan sat back and lifted his wine–glass. The monkfish parcels had melted in the mouth, and he would almost have been happy with that, but then the sea bass arrived, and he had been incapable of speech until the dish was finished. He smiled happily and raised the glass towards a smug Methos, "To Joe, perhaps we should bring him here one day, and not talk shop at him."

Methos returned the toast, "To Joe." He drank the last of the Chablis, tipping his head back, his throat long and pale, the muscles rippling as he swallowed.

"Aye." Duncan averted his eyes and finished his own wine, inescapably aroused.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"How could I not?"

"Well, you might have needed your taste–buds removed first."

"What an awful thought!"

"Indeed." Methos carefully replaced his glass down amongst the meal's debris on the table. He leaned on his elbows and considered. "Imagine, never to taste a fine wine, or a delicious meal — what a waste."

Or taste a lover's skin... Macleod thought the words, but couldn't say them. Not yet...but soon, when this was done, when Kronos was buried once and for all in the depths of his psyche. Which would be soon. He needed it to be soon... "Do you want anything else?"

"No, couldn't fit it in. What about you?"

"No. Coffee?"

"No."

"That's simple then, I'll get the check."

"Which we'll split!"

"Oh, no. This is on me — you can buy lunch tomorrow or something."

"What this going to be — gourmet week?"

"Nothing wrong with that — you could do with some extra layers of insulation."

Methos tutted softly. "You and Joe are worse than a couple of mother hens, anybody'd think you were the old ones."

It felt just that way sometimes, Macleod realised. Sometimes he felt older than Methos, sometimes younger than Dawson. Today he felt...young. Very young... But he answered sweetly, "Just looking out for you," in his best scots old lady voice.

Methos spluttered with laughter. "We'd better go. The walk back to the car might just make you sober enough to drive!"

"I'm sober as a judge!"

"That's what I'm worried about..."

"Ha, bloody ha!" Macleod grinned, and stood up, scraping his metal chair back on the tile floor. He rummaged in his pocket for his bill–fold as the waitress appeared, the check folded on a small chrome plate. Duncan took one glance at the total and selected a note. "Don't worry about the change."

Methos was still laughing as they walked out of the restaurant. "Macleod, you can not impress everyone with money!"

"Ah, but it works so often..."

"At least she'll remember you."

"And we'll get a good table again."

"I should hope so!" His amusement was still bubbling a few moments later, until he checked his watch. "Hell, do you know what the time is?"

"No." He didn't care either.

"Ten to four."

"Oh."

"Exactly. Not even you drive that fast."

"I could try..." Duncan grinned evilly.

"No."

"No?"

"No. We'll take a leisurely drive down to the multi–plex and see what's on there."

"What's come out recently?"

"And you're the one always complaining about my knowledge of popular culture!"

In the end they went to see the remastered Star Wars, and loved it. Sitting amongst kids of every age imaginable they sat spellbound, nudging each other at the new bits, falling in love all over again with all the characters, hating Darth Vader and sighing when it was all over.

Afterwards, they strolled back to the car in complete accord. "I wonder what it would be like to use a light–sabre." Methos mocked a parry in the air.

"Fun. Less heavy to carry around as well."

"That's true."

"I wonder if you could get..." Methos broke off the speculation, hands falling away, his skin was goosefleshed, expectant. He turned, wary, seeing Macleod react the same way. They scanned the area around them, but there were too many people. It was twilight, the lot was packed with cars, with maybe a hundred people milling around after the movie. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the feeling went away. Methos relaxed, pulling his coat close around him. "Well, I wonder who that was."

"No one who wanted to be introduced." First outside the dojo, now here. It was almost too much of a coincidence. Macleod pulled his keys out of his pocket and opened up the car.

"Maybe they've gone in to see the movie, we can't be the only ones to lust after light–sabres." Despite the levity, Methos still looked slightly unsettled.

"Yeah, that must be it." Macleod slid into the driver's seat, waiting for Methos to get in before turning the engine over and asking, "You still want to go to Joe's for a drink?"

"Might as well. The night is still a baby."

"Okay." Besides, he would know about stray Immortals in the area.

* * * * *

Joe's was packed. The two Immortals had to fight their way through too many people to the bar, where they finally caught Joe's attention.

"Hi, Joe! What's going on — you giving away free beer?" Macleod had to speak up over the hubbub.

"It's a party."

"I can see that..."

"A private party — I just didn't realise there were going to be so many of them."

"Well," Methos leaned on the bar and joined the conversation. "It must be good for profits."

There were two barmen working flat out, and Joe was studiously ignoring a customer to talk to his friends, watching the two of them curiously, seeing what a difference the day together had made to their ease with each other. This morning they had hardly acknowledge each others existence, now they seemed relaxed. Relaxed without effort. Joe nodded to himself, then answered Methos. "Yeah, bad for my ulcer though. Let me get you a drink, I'll leave fighting for a table to you."

"Beer please, Joe."

"And me."

Dawson nodded at the pair of them, and went off to pour two schooners. At that moment, Methos spotted an emptying table. "Mac, you get the drinks, I'll be over there." And he was gone, staking his claim under the nose of a pin–striped young man who looked as if he should have been behind a phone on wall street. Methos merely sat down and grinned at him, teeth glinting whitely in the shadowy light.

Macleod took the beers over, careful not to get jogged. He sat down. "I see you're winning friends then."

"Mmm, he asked me to marry his sister, but I had to decline."

"If the sister looked like him, I'm not surprised."

"Thanks for the beer."

"Fine. I asked Joe about strangers, he says he hasn't heard of anyone new around. Apparently Cassandra's still in Europe."

Methos looked up, his eyes narrowed. "I wondered if you'd think it was her."

"Seems obvious." Macleod shrugged and fingered his glass. "She wasn't happy about you being alive."

"No."

"But can't have been her. So, maybe it was just coincidence, or a newbie."

"Or freak weather conditions."

"Oh yeah." Macleod didn't believe a word of it. "That happens so often!"

"Well... Thank you for worrying though."

"You mean you think I have a choice?"

Methos lips twisted wryly, almost smiling. "Thanks."

"No problem." He opened his mouth to say something else, but a microphone was switched on, humming a moment of feedback into the air. Almost immediately it was gone, replaced by a voice Macleod didn't know, announcing a band he hadn't heard of who played electric blues. He groaned. "What is Joe thinking of?"

"It might be all right." Methos settled back in his chair, seemingly content to wait and see.

"You like the Manic Street Preachers, you'll probably love it!"

"Don't knock the Manic's — they're almost Scots."

"Really?"

"Well, they're Welsh..."

"Oh, really Scottish, Methos."

Methos just grinned, as, with a slide of electrified guitar the music began.

In the end, Duncan had to admit that he'd heard worse. But then as he'd heard some bands who could make your ear–wax curdle, that was hardly an accolade. When they lurched into a third number, he nudged Methos. "Shall we go?"

A nod was his answer. It was late, they'd drunk a couple of beers each, and Joe was too busy and the music was too loud to encourage them to stay. Methos stood up, just as a woman came by with two glasses held at waist height. Somehow, in a comedy of bad timing, Methos turned straight into her, knocking both glasses out of her hands.

"Damn, I'm so sorry..." There was wine all down his coat, all over the floor. Luckily, she seemed to have avoided all but a few tiny splashes. "I'm so clumsy!"

"It's not a problem, honestly!" She was crouching down, picking up pieces of glass. "I'd better get this off the floor though."

"Let me..." Methos was at her side. "Duncan, will you get a dustpan from Joe?" He turned his head to ask the question, then winced sharply, cursing abruptly.

"Oh, you've cut yourself!" The woman was watching blood drip from long fingers. "That could be nasty, let me..."

Macleod lent over the tableau. "Let me." And he wrapped Methos' hand in a large white handkerchief, which immediately began to stain red. Though curiously, the blood never spread any further. "I'm a doctor." He smiled warmly at the woman, who coloured, quite flustered. "I'll take him home, make sure he's okay."

"Home?"

"Mmm, we live together."

"Oh." She looked from one to the other, blinked, then smiled almost wryly, standing up as one of the bar–staff came to deal with the mess. "Well, look after that, make sure all the glass is out of it. Though I guess you don't need to be told that, being a doctor and all..."

Macleod upped the wattage of the smile, whilst pulling a mildly bemused Methos to his feet. "I'll take great care. Let us buy you some more drinks before we go."

"Thanks, you needn't..."

"Oh yes we do." He found some money and handed it to a waiter who had wandered over to see if he could help. "Another round for the lady." With a nod, the man was gone. Macleod put a hand under Methos' arm and gently tugged. "Good night."

"'night!"

Joe was waiting by the door. "You're off then."

"Before someone claims they've seen a miracle — don't suppose you fancy the bar being a sight of pilgrimage, Joe?"

"No thanks, Mac. What happened."

"I cut myself," Methos sighed.

"I see." Dawson glanced across the bar, and saw the woman still staring at his friends. "And what else did you tell her."

"Duncan managed to suggest that we were lovers." Methos was studiously picking at his makeshift bandage.

"Well, " Macleod shrugged. "It was one way to stop her noticing you."

"Mac, I've bad news for you, I don't think it worked." Joe was watching over their shoulders, seeing the direction of the woman's fascinated glances as she talked animatedly to her friend.

"Damn!"

"'night, Joe." Methos was leaving.

"Yeah. See you..."

Duncan waved to Joe and headed through the closing door. Outside it was dark, cold enough to mist his breath on the air. "Methos, wait up!" He jogged a few paces, then fell in step.

"Sorry, Duncan, that was very clumsy."

"It could have been worse, at least she didn't actually see you heal."

"No." Methos unwrapped his hand, holding it up, letting the street–light fall on the long, strong fingers, the un–wounded palm. "Good as new."

"I wonder if that would shock her more than the idea that we were an item," Duncan mused.

"I don't think she was shocked.."

"No?"

"Not in the slightest. Titillated maybe..."

"Come off it!"

"Well, she was looking at us in a certain way. Of course," he stopped in his tracks. "If you want to go back and see if my theory pans out..."

"No thanks."

"Macleod, I'm surprised at you. We could make her evening."

"No thanks." Macleod watched the teasing smile, loving the amusement that softened what could be a sombre, ascetic countenance. His breath was suddenly shallow, quite erratic, and he knew what he was going to do, every consequence be damned, every theory of what was right torn up and cast aside. Nothing mattered but this, not any of the past, not Kronos, not even the fears he had about Methos' dark and undoubtedly perverse sexual inclinations. All that was important was here. Everything else just happened to be details.

"Methos, I'd rather make our own evening." And in the shadows, he took a step forward, hands gently reaching to hold the long face still. "Much rather..."

The kiss was little more than a breath of skin against skin, yet it made his body shudder.

"Methos..." Air was impossible to find, the axis of the universe dependent on the man he held in his hands; the man who moved to mould his body to Duncan's, strength to strength, heat to answering heat.

"Macleod?"

Their was uncertainty in the single name, something close to fear painted in the wide eyes. At that moment, Macleod despised himself, hated his own treatment of this man, his own stubbornness, hypocrisy. "Methos... I've wanted to do this for so long." A start of surprise left him breathless.

Methos was whispering, as if in disbelief. "Duncan... I thought you despised me."

"What you were, yes, not what you are."

"I was certain..."

"I don't understand you, Methos, but I want you very much. Anything else we can just work out, can't we?"

Methos voice was thickened with desire. "Yes. I'm sure we can do that. I never guessed, you know. Though I wanted... Why did you wait?"

"I don't know, I don't know." Macleod's voice was low, the soft accent strengthened with emotion.

"Idiot." Affection lingered long after the single word had slipped gruffly from Methos' lips, doubt slowly fading from his eyes.

"Aye." Macleod ran a finger down Methos face, feeling the faint smile the touch solicited. "Will you kiss me again, forgive me?"

"You don't really have to ask..."

They both were smiling, intent on each other, arms wrapping around solidity, assurance in the touch. They kissed, skin against skin, heat enough to spark electricity taking their breath. Lips parted softly under Macleod's, a hand pressing the back of his head drawing him closer. Methos tasted honeyed, tasted of desire. Macleod, eyes closed, understood nothing but the moment. Blind and deaf, his senses focused on feeling, on the warmth of skin, the heat of tongue and soft mouth, the roughness of wool against his fingers, he buried reason in need.

Somewhere in the rational part of his brain, he did know that they were standing outside in the cold night air, that even though they were in shadows, anyone might see. Even more importantly, this knew this was too soon, that he should have waited until everything was resolved and they were free of the past. But rationality could all go to hang. Ruthlessly, he closed off all thought, kissing as if his life depended on it, shivering as Methos nibbled his lip before pressing his tongue deep again; pleasure taken, given, savoured.

In the end it was laughter broke them apart. Guilty, they parted hurriedly, but no one had seen. A party was coming out of Joe's, their drunken hilarity carrying on the chill air. Macleod breathed again, grinning like a boy. "Want to go home?"

Methos nodded emphatically. "Yes!"

"Will you sleep in my bed tonight?"

Methos had half turned away, but he spun back, intently searching Macleod's face. After a moment he nodded, then suddenly his eyes were smiling, devilry dancing in their green depths. "Yeah, why not!"

"Come on then." A quick kiss and he was gone, hand rummaging for his keys. At the car he paused, leaning on the door, suddenly intent. "Methos..."

"Yes." Another smile.

"This is me, you know."

"Oh, I know Macleod. I know."

"I wouldn't want you to think it was him..."

Methos nodded. "I know this is you, I promise you that."

"How?"

"Instinct, memory, technique..." Methos sighed softly, tilting his face up to the stars before facing Macleod again. "You know, I have wanted you since the first time you came looking for Adam Pierson and found me instead. I thought you weren't interested, so I backed off, kept my distance..."

"What a waste."

"Yes. You once asked me if I like normal sex. Well, the answer is yes."

"Good."

Methos wondered what Macleod really thought, what he really wanted. Whatever it was, there was only one way to find out if it was the same as his own desires, his own dreams. And they certainly needed to be somewhere other than a car park in the middle of nowhere. "Macleod, let's get in the car and go home?"

"Continue in comfort?"

"Mmm." Methos nodded.

"Sure."

They both climbed in, and putting the car in gear, Macleod headed homewards. They were silent for a while, content. For Macleod, driving through the city at night was a strange pleasure, one added to by the quiet presence at his side. Anticipation made him smile into the night, though in the end he needed to talk. "Go on, tell me more about Paris."

"Well, you never made as much as a move. And I thought I was just imagining things, indulging in wishful thinking."

"You weren't. Though I wasn't sure enough to make a move, and then somehow things got piled on top of how I felt, what with Jacob, and Alexa.."

"...and Amanda."

"Yeah." Macleod waited at a cross–roads for traffic to pass, then continued. "I guess that Kronos made me really examine how I felt. Even when I hated you for what you'd done, underneath all that confusion, I still wanted you, loved you..."

"No, you hated me so much! When you found me trying to leave, and asked if everything Cassandra had said was true, then walked away telling me it was done, that we were through..." He shook his head, emotion cracking his voice. Methos stared out of the window, street–lights flashing past as they drove along, each one highlighting his face in turn before it plunged back into shadow then back into light. "I wasn't sure if I could go on." "It hurt so much to walk away." Macleod shrugged slightly, his hands tight on the wheel. "I'm sorry. I still find it hard to know about the past, but I can't deny the truth of what else I feel. I couldn't let Cassandra kill you."

"Something I am extremely thankful for," Methos murmured.

Macleod frowned into the path the headlights made. "I will try and understand."

"Well, when you do, let me in on the secret."

"Don't you..?"

"No. I spent hundreds of years trying to forget what I had been, the only time I remembered was at night in dreams, and then I only really saw Kronos, damn him. I honestly didn't recognise Cassandra you know, not for the first few seconds, anyway."

"I did wonder."

"First Kronos and then her." He blinked, remembered horror shadowing his eyes. "It was if the world had gone mad."

"It had, for a while." They were home. Macleod drew the car up outside the dojo, and carefully switched off the ignition. "You know, I haven't felt him all day."

"I know, you've been quite yourself." A soft smile.

"Do you think it's over?"

Methos shifted slightly, one hand on the door, his face appraising. "I don't think I should tempt fate by answering yes, do you?"

"Maybe not."

"But I hope so... I want you as you, Duncan Macleod. I buried Kronos a long time ago, I don't want him back yet again." With that he was climbing out, walking away to lightly run up the steps. "Come on, Duncan, it's bloody nippy out here!"

Macleod slowly uncurled from the driver's seat, locking up before walking across to his doorway. Methos was bouncing on his toes to keep warm, arms wrapped around his torso, shoulders hunched. Macleod realised he often stood the same way, tightly isolated, wrapped in on himself in a way that kept the world out. It all made sense if you saw him as quite alone.

Five thousand years alive.

Alone...

"Methos?"

"Mmm."

Macleod hesitated, then merely smiled. "Out the way, I can't get the key in the lock."

Methos gave him a look, but said nothing, following him inside.

* * * * *

It was wonderfully warm in the loft. Methos stripped off his coat and sitting down to unlace his boots, tossed them haphazardly to one side. From the corner of his eye he watched Macleod, watched the economy of movement, the grace that should have been a dancer's, but in fact belonged to a far stricter discipline. He wanted to taste that body so badly; wanted everything, now. Instead he stood casually, "I'll take the shower first, okay?"

"You're the guest."

Methos smiled, "So I am." He disappeared, unsure quite why he was running away, unless it was doubt at his own skill, his own lack of recent practise in matters such as this.

Stripping quickly he stepped under the water, sighing. He really would never lose the this sense of luxury; it was so sensuous to stand and be soaked by limitless hot water. Closing his eyes, he let it cascade over his head, turning the world into darkness and rushing sound, like standing at the bottom of a waterfall. Though any waterfall he had ever known was cold, and this was warm, so utterly, delightfully warm.

It really shouldn't have been a surprise when the door was pulled open. Methos blinked water out of his eyes and regarded Macleod. "Hello."

"Can I join you?"

Macleod was naked, splendidly naked. Wide shoulders, slim hips, sleek muscle, skin just golden as if tinted by the sun. Methos swallowed incoherently and nodded.

"Thanks." He stepped in and slid the door closed. "Well, this is cosy!"

"Mmm." Suddenly the world was full of Macleod, skin that wasn't his own seemed to be touching Methos everywhere.

"Want me to scrub your back?"

"Duncan..." Methos was shivering, his arms textured with gooseflesh despite the steam that rose around them.

"Yeah...?"

"You're a right bastard, know that?"

"So I've been told." Duncan was grinning, desire rather than humour glinting in his eyes. One finger reached out and tilted Methos' chin up, making him blink water off his dark lashes. Then, controlled as a hunter, Macleod leant forward and kissed one eye, then the other, only then placing a soft kiss on the expectant lips. He sighed heavily, and taking Methos in his arms, held him.

Every desire Methos had ever possessed burned away in that moment. This was what he had wanted for as long as had been alive, longer than he could remember. A sound escaped his mouth, unformed, and he stifled it against the solid muscle of Macleod's shoulder, biting the skin with gentled teeth. Water surrounded him, skin surrounded him. Destiny held in his hands, naked as his desire.

After a while they moved, thigh sliding against thigh, hands touching, touching. Water sparkled around them, cascading off skin as they found soap, turned, moved, touched, washed each other; the simple act of becoming clean, enough of a reminder of what this was all about to banish any insecurity Methos might have felt. He wanted this too much for a few millennia without practise to get in the way.

When they were clean, Methos turned off the shower. In sudden silence he met Macleod's heavy gaze with level candour, water dripping down his face. "Not here. Let's go to bed..." A low, throaty growl of desire almost changed his mind. Fingers brushed a nipple, leaving him breathless. They were going to kiss again. He shook his head, "No! Bed...please?"

Macleod kissed him hard, tongue sliding past the barrier of his lips, commanding. Then he pulled away, leaving Methos open mouthed with wanting.

Duncan murmured innocently, "But I thought you wanted to go to bed?"

"Bastard..."

The chuckle was as sexy as the kiss. Methos, followed him out, only to be enveloped in a wide towel, rubbed hastily dry.

"Ouch! Careful..."

"I'll be careful, sorry." Macleod swiftly knelt, kissed the offended organ, then swallowed it whole, making Methos shudder convulsively, wondering why he had ever doubted Macleod's expertise.

"Mac..."

"Is that better?"

A nod.

"Right then."

By the time Methos staggered after him, Macleod was on the bed, lounging with all the smug arrogance of a sultan. The light by the bed was on, casting a golden glow across a body Michelangelo would have died to carve, or paint...or fuck.

Methos stalked towards him. "Duncan Macleod..." He tossed the towel to one side, playing at indignation. "Are you going to finish what you started?"

Macleod watched the slim body approach the bed and gave up on all the games, gave up on everything but need. He came up to his knees, held out a hand. "Come here."

Their hands meshed, fingers weaving together. Pulled gently forwards, Methos knelt and slid into Duncan's arms. He closed his eyes, head falling back and Macleod kissed his neck, licking the skin, roughly drawing his teeth across fine muscle. A whispered command, "Lie down..." and he obeyed. Stretching his long body across the bed, knowing he was too thin, but that his cock was curving, hard and beautiful, in the air. He gasped when Macleod straddled him, but reached up and was touching the golden skin, hands smoothing across the wide chest, feeling the nipples harden under his touch, feeling Macleod moan almost silently before he bent forward and took a kiss, the weight of his body pressing them cock to cock, the sensation rendering all thought void.

Methos, skin burning, arched upwards. He almost cried out when Duncan moved backwards, knew what was coming, bit down hard on his own hand as that wide mouth enclosed him. This was sweet, sweetest. He tried not to sob, failed, clutching hard at the dark head that took him so deep, gave such expert pleasure.

Like a pearl–fisher he came up for air, then was back, diving, taking Methos deep into the wide, tidal sea of passion. Again and again, until all Methos lived for was the feel of that throat tight around his cock. The ocean was swirling in his head, the sound a roaring that built around him, piercingly sweet. Words spilled from his lips, commands, obscenities, a name. Until the world narrowed to the sea of desire, to the name he whispered. He had wanted this too long. The tight throat slid around him once again and he was lost, a sailor without a sail, borne by currents he had forgotten existed to a place he had never been.

If the world had ended, he would not have cared.

Time drifted, and he opened his eyes, meeting a worried gaze. Languorous he reached out, and touched the reddened lips, blinking drowsily. "Wow."

"Good, I thought I'd killed you!"

"If that was heaven, take me now..."

"Again?"

Methos smiled. "Well, maybe not yet. Come here..." He tugged gently at Duncan's ear until they were pressed together, limb to limb. Methos slid his thigh between the solidity of Macleod's and sighed, wondering at the men who must have taught such skill, jealous, relieved. He ran his fingers along warm skin. "Your turn." There certainly did seem to be an urgency in the heat that pressed at his belly. "What do you want?"

Macleod was kissing a bony shoulder. "Whatever..."

"So decisive." He considered, then tapped Macleod with a pointed finger to get his attention. "Move off me a minute."

Curious, but obedient, Duncan moved, watching as Methos padded silently into the bathroom. When he came back he tossed a tube onto the bed. Propped on an elbow, Macleod reached for it, held it in his hand, then looked up questioningly.

"Only if you want..." A shrug accompanied the offer.

"Want?" Macleod moved before the other man was aware, pulling him to the bed, pinning him down. "Don't come all coy with me, of course I want! How could I not, but..."

"But what?"

Macleod was shaking his head, pain darkening his eyes. "I hurt you, tried to force you. How can you offer this?"

"Because I trust you, Duncan Macleod. And I need you to trust yourself."

The tube was cool in his hand, warming though as he held it. He blinked, met Methos' eyes. "You are sure?"

"Duncan, I wouldn't have offered if I was uncertain. I want this, I want you..."

They kissed again, slow and easy, until Duncan shivered. Then Methos pulled back, taking the near face in his hands, studying it closely. His voice was soft, thick as honey with desire. "I want you as well, you know."

"Yes."

"But this first." He placed a kiss on the end of the neat nose, then wriggled around until he was on his belly, sighing luxuriously, lifting his arse in invitation.

Macleod ran a hand down the line of long spine, letting his hand cup delicately around the curves offered. The spirit of generosity in which this offer was made came close to unmanning him. There was hope, here. More. Now all that mattered was to make it good enough to wipe out the memory of everything that had gone before.

Gently, he urged one leg up so it lay bent, opening everything to his touch, running a finger the length of the crack. His mouth followed his hand, kissing the pale inner thighs, licking at the softened balls, sucking at the perineum until Methos groaned, lifting his pelvis with a husky murmur of need, of offering. Macleod let his tongue travel slowly upwards, circling. Very slowly he licked deep into the tight, wrinkled skin, feeling the muscle clutch wantonly at even such a slight penetration. A kiss, then he continued, until he was nuzzling the soft, almost invisible hairs and the base of Methos' spine.

Curled there, his cheek to the warm skin, he opened the tube, and with shaky fingers spread the clear gel on his own cock, glad of the coldness, as it took away from the edge of need that almost upset his purpose. He could hardly bear to touch himself any further. Instead he knelt, taking his weight on one hand, his cock in the other, Methos' throaty voice an encouragement he didn't need, but loved, and pressed into the tight entrance.

Macleod gritted his teeth as Methos' body was slowly broached. It was almost beyond his powers of restraint not to come, but he breathed slow and deep, moaning softly as he inched slowly inside. The slim body was taut under him, tension humming through every muscle. Macleod braced himself on both arms, hands pressed close to Methos' sides, then bent his head and kissed the curve of one shoulder. With absolute control he eased out of the tightness, then pushed back in, deeper this time. Then again, until he was entirely inside, the root of his cock buried, the tight need of his balls pressed close against heated skin.

Methos gasped as Macleod flexed his hips, what had to be pleasure shuddering at last through what must have been pain. When Duncan moved again, wanting this to be delight, needing it to be so, he found himself pushed back against, as Methos offered complicity as an aphrodisiac. Lost, Duncan listened to words that urged him on. There was nothing he could do but obey. Pushing deep as muscles tightened around him, the pleasure came hard out of nowhere, until forbearance was no longer even a dream. Far too soon he cried out loud, sobbing as he lost control, spilling his seed in racking waves deep in his lover's body.

Time paused around them, then Methos licked dry lips and groaned softly. Pressed hard into the bed by the weight of Macleod's body, he smiled secretly, loving the dying spasms of pleasure that sparked through them both. Duncan's hardness was still deep inside him, hard though beginning to soften. Very gently, Methos flexed his muscles around it, shivering as sated sensation rippled through his body.

It was wonderfully good, to lie here. He didn't want to question why, didn't want to analyze or understand anything beyond this undoubted, unseen happiness. Kronos hadn't managed to stand between them. His own confused desires, or Macleod's limited understanding of them, hadn't complicated such feral simplicity. For the first time in far too long he had loved, been loved in return. It was enough to make him want to be everything that Macleod wanted him to be. Anything. Enough to make him want this to last forever.

The thought made him smile; the pragmatist turned romantic.

Just then, Macleod moved, his cock slipping wetly from tightness, making Methos shiver as surprise pulled a soft whimper of loss from his lips. A kiss on the back of his neck, then Macleod was gone, flopping to one side with a groan. After a moment he found his voice. "Methos..." he stretched out one arm, the invitation obvious.

"Mmm." The owner of the name turned onto his side, and settled in the crook of Macleod's arm, feeling it curl around him as he stilled.

"That was..."

"Mmm..."

They had the energy to smile, at least.

Macleod stroked the smooth skin under his fingers. After a while when he thought of nothing at all, he said, "We should go to bed."

"I know."

"But we're lying on the covers."

"You noticed."

"Yeah. We'll get cold if we stay here."

A long suffering sigh. "Oh, all right." Methos slowly sat up, ruffled, dissipated. He bent close to Macleod and kissed his mouth briefly. "You know, that was really very pleasant."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes." Methos stretched reminiscently. Not a twinge. Shame, really, it would have been good to feel the imprint of Macleod on his body.

Slowly he stood up, pleasure still too heavy in his body for sudden movement, and tugged at the bed–cover where it lay under Macleod, making him move with a grin. In a moment the light was off and they were together under the sheets. Methos pulled Macleod close, loving his warmth, his solidity, taking him into his arms. "'night, Duncan."

"Good night. We'll stink in the morning."

"What the hell..."

"Yeah." Macleod settled down in the shadows, gently stroking his hand across the curving line of Methos' ribs. After a moment, very serious, he said, "Methos, thank you for trusting me."

"I have always trusted you, Duncan." He sighed, softly. "Kronos, though, is a different matter."

Macleod stirred uneasily, then stilled as a hand pressed comfortingly against his shoulder. "If you have to kill me again — just do it."

"You think I'd have any qualms?"

Macleod smiled at the mild, outraged amusement in the drawling voice. "I just want to be sure."

"Rest easy, Duncan. I have no interest in meeting Kronos again. I'll do whatever I can..." He broke off with a wide yawn.

"Sleep well, Methos."

"I intend to." A wide yawn.

Macleod shifted, curling onto his side. He murmured contentedly when Methos spooned around him, an arm tucked around his waist. Not much later the breath warming the back of his neck became soft and rhythmic. Close to sleep himself, it was all he needed.

* * * * *

Methos woke to an unaccustomed feeling of well–being that was as close to happiness as he could imagine. He stretched slowly, luxuriating in contentment, running his hand across the sheet, searching for Macleod. All his fingers found though were cold linen and the edge of the bed. Curious, he slowly sat up, wiping his hands over his stubbled face to clear the sleep from his eyes.

"Duncan?"

No answer. Methos scanned the room, finally seeing Macleod sitting on the couch. He was bent over, head in his hands.

It was as if the contentment had never existed.

Methos stared across the room, silently cursing himself and his lack of self–control. He shouldn't have slept in this bed, shouldn't have allowed himself to be so enamoured, so persuaded.

He climbed slowly off the bed, padding barefoot across the polished wood floor to stand, quite lost, by Macleod. "Duncan...?"

Slowly, the dark head lifted, and in a moment of recognition Methos was taught the true meaning of despair. Fast, he turned on his heel, running for the door, but hands were on him, a fist setting his senses spinning, taking the strength from his legs, spilling him bruisingly to the floor. He lay there, stunned, watching bare legs walk around him. "Macleod?" It was a whisper, born of a spark of hope that guttered as he was hauled upright, tossed casually towards the bed.

"Silence!"

The roar was Kronos, come for his revenge.

Clutching the floor, Methos lay still, waiting. Sweat, cold with fear, glistened on his skin. Everything he had learned last night had to be forgotten — this was not Macleod. This was not...

"Get up, Methos."

If he closed his eyes, time could fold back. The voice, the intonation... Deprived of grace, Methos stumbled to his feet and faced his nemesis. "What do you want?"

"You."

"Macleod, fight this!" Methos ducked the blow and almost made it, a foot tripping him only at the last moment. He ignored the pain and went on talking, convinced if he spoke long and loud enough Macleod would hear. "You are not..."

"Shut up! I know you only pretended to enjoy last night, well, now I'm going to give you what you really want."

"I don't want..." A casual slap across the face tried to silence him, splitting his lip but not halting his words. "Duncan, fight him! Don't.."

This time the blow came close to knocking him senseless. Dazed, he felt strong hands take hold of his wrists and begin to drag him across the floor. Sickeningly, he realised he had two choices, fight or submit; neither of which would be easy. He tried to gather his scattered senses, to find words that would reach Macleod rather than Kronos. His voice was slurred, halting, "Duncan, this isn't you, remember last night..." Released close to the bed, Methos curled onto his belly, found strength to reach his knees. He shook his head, trying to clear it, speaking the words carefully, as if to a deaf man. "Fight him, you are strong enough!" He came up onto his feet, crouching, straightening, knowing a window was behind him. If he could...

Methos turned, leaping for the glass, almost reaching the freedom that lay two floors away. Almost. Hands held him, taking him down, crashing him painfully into the floor.

This time he barely stayed conscious. Macleod's face was grinning at him as he was tethered; a leather belt held close making him flinch, before it was simply bound around his wrists. There were no preliminaries. He was turned, pressed viciously into the wooden floor, and Kronos raped him with Macleod's body.

Methos lay still as the dead. Drawing his consciousness away to the distant place where he knew he could hide, he left everything behind. As pain shuddered through his body, he retreated from it all, turning to the shadows inside himself, to the place he could hide; the soft, ugly sounds an evil counterpoint to his own silent mantra of denial. There was nothing he could do but let his body be used, and try and remember the sweetness of the night, before this horror obliterated it altogether. His last true thought was to hope dimly that Macleod was still fighting. Then he was gone, turned inward, leaving his body to Kronos' mercy, knowing he would have none.

* * * * *

The first sensation he knew was that of a body under his own. Sleep–drugged, he smiled, remembering making love to Methos, remembering how sweet it had been, how right. Macleod awoke and, for a brief second of confusion wondered why, if it was still night, the room was so bright. He frowned, disquieted.

Blinking sleepily, he opened his eyes. Horror brought him to his knees, wrenching him painfully away from the body he had clearly just fucked. It had been night when he last remembered anything, now sunlight spilled into the room, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Kronos.

Sickened, eyes hooded in pain, Macleod saw the bindings around bloodied wrists, the stillness. Lowering his head, he saw bright blood on his own body, blood that wasn't his own. Shame flamed in his face.

Very carefully, unsure if he was quite sane, he moved to crouch at Methos' side. His fingers were clumsy on the leather belt that had been twisted hard around both wrists, the leather dug deep into skin by either struggle or design. After seemingly minutes of struggle, he was close to sobbing, then finally the thin strap twisted loose, knots giving way, and Methos was free. He tossed the belt away in revulsion. Macleod eased him onto his back, bringing him up to rest against his lap, holding him, keening softly under his breath.

Methos was open eyed, quite unresponsive. Bruises mottled his body, circled his throat. Macleod stroked his hand through the sweat–matted hair, whispering his name, again and again, hating Kronos, hating himself more for allowing this to happen.

The body against his skin was very cold. Maybe...

Macleod eased him to the floor, placing a kiss on his forehead, whispering still, then went hurriedly into the bathroom. He filled the bath with warm water, waiting urgently until it was half–full, then almost ran back. Methos was still the same, lying where he had been placed, eyes open, face calm and still. Duncan picked him up tenderly, and carried him into the bathroom, lowering him slowly into the water, careful that he didn't slide under.

He lay where he had been placed, an effigy carved in wax.

"Methos?" Macleod softly called the name, repeating it again. He had never seen anything like this, even the wounded wrists were not healing, blood slowly staining the water. He poured more hot into the bath, washing the blood away until at least it ceased to flow. He talked all the time, words spilling from his lips as he soaped and rinsed. Finally, he pulled the plug, and, as the water spiralled away, eased Methos awkwardly to his feet. "Come on, now, that's right..." Macleod stepped into the bath and, carefully holding the dead weight upright, turned on the shower–head, letting the clean water spill over them both, rinsing the last of the blood away.

Towels were there, just within reach. Water switched off, he wrapped Methos in a bath–sheet and, lifting him again, carried him back out to the bed. He was warmer, but it was as if the warmth was superficial, only borrowed from the heat of the water. Duncan lay him down and towelled the pale skin, rubbed the spiky hair dry, then carefully pulled the covers up.

It was too much like laying out the dead.

There was nothing else he could think to do. Nothing he knew how to do. Panic gnawed at the edges of his reason, made it impossible to think with any clarity. He couldn't do this, couldn't. Certainly couldn't be alone here when Methos came round. Not alone. The thought of seeing fear... No, he needed someone else: Joe.

Roughly drying himself on the towel he tossed it aside. Ignoring the fact that his hands were shaking, he pulled on the first clothes he could find, loose sweat–pants and a black sweater. Pushing his feet into sneakers, he found the phone and rang Joe's mobile. It was switched off. He cursed, bitterly, and tried the number for the bar. After an age a young voice answered, "Joe's, can I help you?"

"Is Joe there, this is Duncan Macleod."

"Sorry, he's at a meeting with the Blues Festival committee."

Duncan bit his lip, all the while watching the still form in the bed. "Do you know what time he'll be back?"

"In about an hour, I guess."

"I see." Macleod ran a hand over his face. There had to be a way round this. "Do you know where the meeting's being held?"

"Sure, it's over at Blue Note, it's club over..."

"I know — thanks." And he disconnected abruptly.

An hour. He wasn't sure if he could wait that long. Wasn't sure that Methos could. Quite what Dawson could do if he was here, Duncan wasn't sure. But he might know something, his understanding of Immortals greater than almost anyone Macleod had ever met.

Besides, he was Methos' friend. A safe friend who hadn't just raped...

No! He couldn't allow himself the luxury of guilt, not yet. The decision had to be made. He went back to Methos, sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking a light, uncertain hand over his forehead. "Can you hear me? If you can, I'm going out to find Joe. I'll be back soon, and I'll bring him with me."

The still face didn't move, the eyes staring glassily open.

Duncan reached under the covers and found one hand, easing it free. Bruising was dark around the bones, the broken skin still unhealed. He briefly closed his eyes, grief almost taking away his ability to function. Then he tucked the hand back and stood up. "I won't be long."

It felt like talking to the dead.

Macleod trailed his fingers across the rough blanket, then turned on his heel. Finding the car key, he took one last glance into the long room; the bed isolated in the distance, its shape barely disturbed by the man within. Then he was gone, running down the stairs, locking up obsessively before jumping into the car, gunning the engine and skidding away.

* * * * *

The Blue Note was more up–market than Joe's, a designer facade of chrome and glass showed the interior, exposing the occupants like ants in a vivarium. As Macleod pushed open the door, he could see Joe Dawson standing with a cluster of men and women; he was holding court, telling some story that made them all smile and nod, laugh. Some sixth–sense must have made his skin itch though, for as Macleod brushed past a waiter, he turned, smiled, and excused himself from the group.

"Mac, what's up?"

"It's Methos..." He blinked, words failing suddenly in his throat.

"Hey, hang on, you'd better sit down!" Concern creased Dawson's face, made him reach out and grip Macleod's arm, feeling the muscle knotted tight with tension.

"No, there isn't time. Come with me, Joe. I don't know what to do..."

"Sure I'll come with you, but give me a hint, Mac, what's happened. Is Methos okay?"

"He's alive."

"Well, that's a start. Where is he?"

"At the dojo. Joe, please, just come..."

The urgency was unmistakeable. Joe nodded. "Hang on, I need to say goodbye — go out and I'll meet you in the car."

Macleod nodded, walking back to the car, thinking nothing much other than concentrating on keeping his breath even, regular. After a while, Dawson emerged, his halting gait carrying him across the street. "Right..." He settled into the passenger seat, hardly there before the car was moving. He sighed, turning to look at the driver. "Was it bad?"

Macleod nodded. "Kronos came back. And now Methos is...he's... Hell, I don't know what he is, but close to catatonic."

"What did you — he — do?"

"Hurt him. Badly. I don't know what else — I wasn't there."

The dry delivery didn't fool Dawson at all. "It wasn't you, don't believe otherwise."

"No, just my hands, my body, my..." Macleod pushed away the anger, concentrating on driving through the traffic as fast as safely was able. "I thought I had it under control, I was so bloody certain."

"And now?"

"I'm me."

"And Methos is unconscious."

"His eyes are open, but he didn't hear me when I spoke to him, or respond at all." Macleod shivered. "Joe, he has...bruises, wounds on his wrists, they weren't healing." Misery clogged his voice, and he shook his head. "You heard of anything like this before?"

"No." Joe, utterly serious, searched his memory, but there was nothing. "Sorry. Maybe he'll be fine by the time we get there."

"If not, well I was thinking maybe he might respond to your voice, instead of mine."

The idea was clearly painful.

"He might." Joe rubbed a broad hand through his beard. "You try anything other than talking?"

"No." Macleod pushed the car through a few corners at a speed it wasn't built to take, then continued. "He was cold, I warmed him up a bit, made sure he was wrapped up before I left." They were nearly home; anxiety twisted in his belly like a thousand spiders crawling.

"Even he would have problems dealing with what happened. Maybe it's just shock. He loves you too much, you know, for it not to have been pretty awful."

"Jesus! Even if he'd hated me it would have been terrible!" Macleod stilled the engine, anger coldly controlled. "I know he doesn't hate me, didn't..." He swallowed hard, then was out of the car. "Come on."

"I'm hurrying..."

"I'll open up." Macleod loped across the street, then stilled, calling out, "Joe?"

"I'm hurrying!" Joe moved as fast as he was able.

"The dojo's been broken into." Macleod was staring at the splintered door, body braced to fight.

"Hell!"

"Yeah. Stay here..." And he slipped away, ghosting silently through the door.

Despite the warning, Joe followed him inside. There was no noise, but after a while the elevator descended. Macleod was there, sword unsheathed in his hand. "What's happened?"

"Methos has gone."

"Gone as in left, or gone as in taken?"

"Taken. There's blood all over the place."

"Shit."

Macleod opened the cage, his face quite without emotion. "I'll kill whoever did this, Joe."

"Any ideas?"

"Some. We felt someone around a couple of times, maybe they were watching us, waiting." Macleod gripped the hilt of his sword "You remember I asked you about strangers around?"

"Yeah, but there wasn't anyone."

"There is now. Are you sure Cassandra isn't around?"

"Certain." Joe watched as Duncan raised his head, seeing pain and more in the hunted dark eyes. "I'll check again though. See who else might be here."

"A friend of hers, it must be. Someone she's told, or ordered. No one else would know — and she would certainly guess to look here."

"Because she knows you and Methos are friends?"

"No, because I wouldn't let her kill him. She'll know I'll be guarding him." He shrugged faintly. "Cassandra thought Methos and I were lovers."

"Was she right?"

"Not then, but...yes."

Joe whistled. "That was quick work."

"It seemed right. Now I don't know..."

"Trust yourself, Mac. And trust Methos, he didn't exactly go into it blindly." Dawson turned away, slowly heading towards the door. "I'll get a cab at the end of the street, and I'll call when I know something."

"Use the mobile number. I'm going to scout around, see what I can find."

"Be careful."

"They won't be after me."

"Yeah, but they could get you by what you might call accident. Cassandra didn't strike me as someone you cross idly."

"No." Macleod lowered his head, studying the intricate carvings on his katana's hilt. "She was always on my side before. Joe, I hope it isn't her."

"Don't count on it." Joe walked away.

"No."

Macleod listened until the building was quiet, feeling the silence build around him. Too much had happened, he felt pulverised by circumstance. By what he had done. By what Kronos had done...

The idea of Methos hurt was acid under his skin. The idea of hurting him with his own hands, his own body, was pain of the bitterest kind. To have committed such a crime, to have stolen what had been simply given. And now Methos might be truly dead.

Sorrow burned like fire, that possibility sharding pain through his mind. Images forced their way into his thoughts, appalling, that long neck sliced through by sharp steel... Shakily, he wiped his hands over his face, feeling the damp slide of unaccustomed tears under his fingers. For a long moment he stared at his hands, then cursing his own weakness, began the search for any clues.

There were none, none that helped. The main door had been splintered off its hinges. He fingered the old wood, feeling it soft and spongy under his fingers. One man could have done it, if he was strong enough, or two, working in tandem. There were no marks on the door, no sign that any implement had been used. Macleod walked out into the sunshine, casting around. A car had recently been parked there, leaking a small amount of oil. It might have been his, or it might be someone innocent. There was no way of telling.

Inside, the cool building was no more helpful. There were no footprints, no sign that a stranger had been here. All there was, was blood. Walking across to the bed, Macleod fingered the sheets, finding them sliced through by whatever blade had wounded Methos, as if he had been taken unawares. Had he been conscious at that moment? Perhaps he had woken and fought... Unlikely. Macleod saw destruction everywhere, but all of it had been there before he'd gone to find Joe; all of it from Methos' desperate attempts to fight him, not any intruder.

Macleod let the sheets fall back to the bed. There had to be a way of finding him. He stood for a long time, staring into space, but nothing slipped into his mind, no answer whispered from the silence. It was quite simple, success or failure hinged on Joe, and how accurate the Watchers records were, how up to date. Other than to hope and wait, there was nothing he could do. Waiting had never been easy, and as for hoping...

Cursing, he pulled the covers off the bed, sheets and cover and blankets all together, bundling them up tight, dragging them over to the elevator. They could go out as garbage, he never wanted to see them again.

Very slowly he walked back through the still room, seeing the path of a fight he couldn't remember. Yesterday, he had been so convinced that Kronos was gone, eradicated from his consciousness. Such egotism! But if he had realised the truth, he would never have allowed himself to kiss Methos, to make love to him. He would have done nothing to jeopardise the beginnings of love, let alone the fragile ties of a much abused friendship. This was a relationship he wanted, a lover he needed, a friend he valued more than he had ever told. Someone he might never see again.

But that evening had been so right; it was hard to deny that, to wish it had never happened. If it came to it, then that memory was all he would have. Something worth having, worth treasuring.

Unlike Methos who would have the memory of violence.

Macleod shuddered at the thought, sickened. He wiped his hand across his mouth and focused on the first thing close at hand; the stripped bed, its mattress dark with great patches of blood.

There was no way he wanted Methos to see that when he came back. No way. In fact the whole place needed clearing up. Macleod looked around at the devastation, and pushed his sleeves back. At least work would help stop him thinking.

Three hours later, the room was spotless, and the garbage was overflowing. Macleod had ordered a new mattress over the phone, paid way over the odds to have it delivered immediately. They had even taken the old one away — the stains accounted for in a glib way, the explanation oiled by a substantial application of cash.

He wandered through the room, touching his fingers against wood, against metal, fingering the spines of a row of books. All that was needed was Methos. Yet Dawson still hadn't phoned. Duncan took a long breath, then made a decision. There was no point sticking around here, so he would go to Joe's. After a cleaning himself up.

Stripped of filthy clothes, hair unbound, Macleod went into the shower. He stood for a long time under the water, letting his mind float free. Even though he searched deep within himself, there was no sign of Kronos. Though as that had meant less that nothing before, he didn't make the mistake of trusting it now. Instead he dried off, found underwear, topped it with jeans and sweater and walking–boots, and, locking up his newly mended door, got into his car.

It had to be worth checking out the places they had felt the presence of an Immortal. Duncan tapped the wheel with his fingers. Joe still hadn't rung, so there was time. Decision made, Macleod turned the ignition. It couldn't hurt just to drive around, see what he could see. And if Joe still hadn't been in contact, then a visit to the bar wouldn't hurt.

* * * * *

For a long time he was aware of being scarcely alive. He lived, but that was the beginning and the end of knowledge.

Alive.

There was a reason for it, he knew that much, but it quite eluded him. After a while he ceased to care.

Time neatly folded around him, giving no perception of itself passing. He curled in on himself, sheltered. There was no unpleasantness here, really no feeling at all. He lay still, basking in ignorance.

Then pain fought its way into his hiding place. He snarled at it, tried to twist away, but it forced it's way through him.

After that, there was nothing at all.

* * * * *

He shuddered back to life unaware that he had even been dead. Lying still, he burned as sensation flooded through nerves and muscle, healing searing through what must have been the death blow, deep in his side. Pain held him for a long while, then it eased and he could think again.

What had happened? He searched his ragged memory, found a moment of absolute happiness when Macleod had kissed him outside Joe's bar, then shuddered as he found Kronos, staring from Macleod's intense eyes. After that came the memory of misery, then escape into a trance that brought, eventually, the blessedness of nothing.

The only problem with retreating so completely from the world was that things happened without your knowledge. Methos cautiously opened his eyes, to find darkness and unnerving uncertainty. Wherever he was, it wasn't the dojo, unless that building had a cellar. An absence of light surrounded him, the blackness shimmering in its intensity. Listening, he heard no one close. Safe, perhaps. Safe enough to move. He tried, and knew bleak despair as, with the movement, he felt the unmistakeable weight of fetters around wrists and ankles, woke achingly twisted muscles. He laughed softly, despairingly to himself, mocking his own sudden fear.

Prison.

He had been here before, or a place like it; lain in darkness and waited for whatever was to come. Facing it often took more courage than was easy to find, but there was rarely any choice. Especially if this place belonged to Kronos.

If Macleod belonged to Kronos.

Try to find it as he might, there was no memory in him of Macleod coming back to himself. All remembering brought him was the shadowy breath of recalled pain, of Kronos laughing.

What if he had won a battle Macleod hadn't even really known he was fighting? What if there was no more Macleod at all?

He pushed the thought away violently. It couldn't be true. But if it was... He was certain his own sanity would never survive.

Whatever sanity he had left.

Kronos stalked his memory, every recollection Methos thought he had destroyed.

Shuddering, he gripped hard onto reality. Where was he? There was silence around him, no traffic, no sirens. Wherever he was, it had to be out of the city.

Or in a sound–proofed room.

He concentrated, scenting the air. Everything smelt of wood, of earth, all layered over the unwashed stink of his own body. He was definitely somewhere in the country, maybe a forest for there was pine, sharp and sweet in the air. The knowledge brought a breath of relief. But a forest where? For all he knew he could be anywhere, any state, any country.

Licking dry lips he miserably wished for water, wished for light. If truth were admitted he wished most of all for Macleod, sane and whole. Though none of the wishes seemed likely to be granted. Macleod, before Kronos. The image helped.

There was one other alternative, Macleod could be dead.

The effect on him was devastating. For a moment he believed that possibility with utter conviction, and he had to lock his jaw tight to stop from keening out loud.

Then he remembered. It wasn't certain. Nothing was certain. Sanity shivered back, wary.

Ruthless with his own weakness, he buried every thought that wasn't of now, of survival. He would cope with this; he would cope.

He shifted again, trying to find the boundary of his freedom. Despite the metal which tethered him, wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle, he could move slightly, though as the floor was concrete and he was naked, every movement needed care. After a moment he made it onto his side, taking the weight off his abused hands. It was a marked improvement, one he scarcely had time to appreciate for, almost immediately, came faint awareness of another Immortal.

Wide eyed in the darkness he was blinded when light flooded the room. Methos tried to bury his face in his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. After a moment he slowly opened his eyes, wincing at the neon glare, to focus blearily on a tall, heavily muscled man who was staring down at him.

It was a stranger.

Not Macleod. Not even as himself.

Methos sniffed and awkwardly pushed himself up until he was sitting, taking a moment to look around. He was being held in what appeared to be a cellar, one he was tethered to quite securely by a chain linked by a short length from his ankles to a dishearteningly solid hook, set deep in the concrete.

After considering him, roughly in the manner a visitor at the zoo might watch a particularly unexciting exhibit, the man decided to speak, his voice close to disinterested. "You're awake then."

Methos buried all the discomfort, all the private grief, and forced himself to be deal with this, with now; "Yes, I'm awake. Why am I here?"

No answer, but Methos had hardly expected one. The man was dressed in anonymous jeans and workshirt, a broadsword dangling from his hand as lightly as a foil. He had red hair, pale skin, and mustaches that made him look like some casting director's version of Finn Mac Cumhaill. Methos asked wryly, "And which one of the four kingdoms do you come from?"

"Connaught. I was wondering when you'd come round."

Such verbosity. "How sweet to be worrying about me! I could almost think you cared."

"I do. She'd be bitterly disappointed if you were dead before she got here." Light blue eyes regarded him without curiosity. "And I'd hate to disappoint her, Methos the Horseman." A smile, small, quite unnerving, came with the name.

"Ah, you know me."

"She told me all about you."

"Cassandra." It had to be. Methos dimly wondered if he looked as scared as he felt.

"Aye, the Lady."

"And what are you?" Methos asked wearily. "Her lover?"

"I'm her sword, her arm, her anger. Don't forget it."

Methos slowly shook his head, muttering almost to himself. "I really don't think I'm likely to." Then, with a determined setting of his shoulders he tried again. "What is your name?"

"You can call me Donal."

"Donal. Well, I don't suppose I could have some water, could I?"

The man walked easily across to a table, where he poured water from a plastic bottle into a paper cup. Methos watched as, light–footed, he came back. The sword tip was suddenly close to the prisoner' throat.

Backing away as well as he was able, Methos tilted his head and spoke quickly. "Even if you hadn't tied me quite so effectively, which you have, I am not going to try anything. I'm not sure how I could. I really am just thirsty." The sword pulled back, and Donal bent to place the cup close to his prisoner before moving away. Which still left the problem of drinking it. Methos swallowed. "Ah, I don't suppose you'd untie my hands?"

"No."

"I can't drink like this." He could, but it would mean almost crawling in front of his captor, a thought so humiliating it made his flesh creep. There might come a time when thirst outweighed such an indignity, but he was a long way from that yet. He tried again. "Look, I'm chained up like a dog here! What difference can it make to let my hands be tied in front of me?"

"She says you're dangerous, as well as being an evil bastard. Bend down, you can cope."

"But..." Methos stared at the cup, wondering if the man would take it away if he didn't drink.

"What'll you do for it, beg?"

Even bound as he was, Methos managed to convey contempt, arrogant dismissal of that idea. "No."

"Didn't think so. And make the most of it, that's all you'll get."

"No food?"

"No."

Methos sighed and asked politely, "Is there a reason you want me to starve?"

"Who says you're going to be here long enough for that ti happen?"

Oh, well, ask a stupid question... Methos would have laughed, had it all not been so disastrous.

"I know all about you, Methos the Horseman. I know what you did to her. So, apart from the occasional glass of water, you won't get anything from me."

Methos half closed his eyes, weary. Then he lifted his head, levity quite gone. "Not even some clothes?"

"You don't need them."

"I suppose not." Though it was cold enough to make him uncomfortable, he wouldn't die of it. And even if he did, clearly that wouldn't matter much either. Methos tilted his head and asked, as if it meant nothing, "When will Cassandra arrive?"

"When she gets here."

"News and information 24 hours a day!" Methos muttered sarcastically.

"Be thankful, Horseman — I could make this far worse."

Methos looked around him, and knew that was true. He nodded. "I suppose you think I should be grateful?"

A smile, almost with humour. "Maybe I wouldn't go that far..." Then Donal turned to leave.

"Hey!"

"What?"

"What about, well, bathroom facilities?" Methos shrugged helplessly.

"There's a bucket. You were born long enough ago for that to be a luxury."

Methos listened as the door closed, muttering, "I wouldn't quite say that." A moment later and the light clicked off, completing a perfect day.

* * * * *

It was very late when Macleod finally walked into Joe's basement. Dawson took one look at him, and poured a large measure of Tallisker into a glass. "Drink that..."

"Thanks." Macleod took the glass in his hand and, with only the smallest hesitation drank it in one long swallow.

"You haven't found him."

Dawson's words were a statement, though Macleod shook his head. "No, I found how he broke in, where he parked his car, and I can tell you he's a big bastard from the size of his shoes. But I've no idea where he went or where he's hiding." Duncan stared into his glass. "What about you?"

"Ten minutes ago I'd've said nothing, then I got a call. There's an Immortal just arrived, he's Irish, Donal Heffernan he's calling himself, though he's had a good few names in the last thousand years or so."

Duncan considered thoughtfully. "There was a Donal who new Cassandra, he had a different last name, but," he shrugged, "we all know names mean nothing."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"Once, a long time ago."

"Take a look at his picture." Joe keyed in a command and the database flashed up a photograph and potted biography.

Duncan nodded decisively. "No question, that's the man I met. What's he supposedly doing here?"

"We've no idea. He flew in from London a couple of days ago, he's been staying out at a house by the river."

"Perhaps I should pay him a visit."

"Yeah, but be careful, he's a mean fighter."

"I've seen him at work." Duncan frowned. "I won't fight him unless I have to. Anyway, he might not be the one we're after."

"And if he isn't?"

"Then I'll keep looking."

"And if it turns out Methos is dead?"

"Joe, I won't believe that until I see his body." He rested a hand on Joe's arm, squeezed gently, and was off, walking towards the door.

"You want any help?"

Macleod paused, looking back over his shoulder. "Thanks for the offer, Joe, but I'd better go alone."

Just then the phone rang. Macleod listened to Joe's part of the conversation, which told him almost nothing other than that the Watcher wasn't at all happy.

After a minute, Dawson cradled the receiver and looked up at Macleod. "We've lost him. That was Donal Heffernan's Watcher, he just came to after being blind–sided, rang in immediately. He's gone."

"So, he must be the one."

"Yeah, Cassandra must have told him about us."

Macleod walked back to the desk, and leant against it, weight on both hands, "Did your Watcher say anything about where he might have gone?"

"He's outside the house. He won't search it, but he'll wait for you, show you where it is."

"So I can search."

"Yeah."

"You coming this time?"

Dawson nodded. "There's no point staying here." You never knew, he might be able to help. Besides, the thought of waiting was almost more than he could bear.

* * * * *

The house Donal Heffernan had been staying in was sparsely furnished, as if the owners were away and would be so for a long time. Macleod prowled around, stripping dust–sheets off furniture, looking for anything that might prove any use at all.

From the doorway, Joe watched him, seeing contained anger, not all of it directed outside of himself. "You found anything?"

"Not in this room."

"It doesn't look as if he used in here."

"He didn't, but you never know what might be around."

Joe sighed. "What have you come up with?"

"He lived in the kitchen and one bedroom. There's fresh garbage outside in the bins and he wasn't too interested in the shower–room. Oh, and this is definitely linked to Cassandra — the redial on the phone accessed one of her numbers."

"That's great. Isn't it?" There was sudden doubt in Dawson's voice.

"Yeah. Except that she wasn't there." Macleod walked towards him. "Go through to the kitchen."

Obedient, Joe turned, walking away. "What's there?"

"Chairs, we can sit down."

"Oh."

There were pine chairs around the wide table. It was quite dark, and Joe clicked on the overhead light before settling himself down, watching Macleod sit opposite him.

Macleod ran a finger over a smooth knot in the table's surface. "She must be going to come in tonight, if she isn't here already."

"That's unlikely. She only slipped away from her Watcher about six hours ago."

"You just found that out?"

"Mmm, I made some calls while you were searching."

"So, it is likely she'll arrive either late tonight or early tomorrow morning?" Macleod raised an enquiring eye–brow, waiting for confirmation.

"Yeah. Most likely tomorrow, from where she was staying she'd have to change airlines at London Heathrow."

"Good. Can you watch for her?"

"You mean, can I get a Watcher at the airport?"

"Yes."

Joe held Duncan's gaze, then nodded. "The guy we had on Heffernan, he'd go if I ask."

"Where is he now?"

"Still outside in his hire–car. But Duncan, we can't tell him who has been taken." He leant across the table, earnest. "Remember, the Watchers don't know who Methos is."

Macleod closed his eyes wearily. "I know." Then he was staring at Joe again, sure and certain. "But neither you nor I can be at the airport, Cassandra would pick up my presence immediately and she'd recognise you. What other option do we have?"

"You want me to bring him in, ask him?"

"If you think we can get round the issue of Methos' identity..."

"Hell, we can just go back to calling him Adam, if we have to call him anything."

Macleod nodded. "Yeah, do it."

He watched as Dawson dialled on his mobile. "Alexi, get in here, will you?"

There was some sort of reply, then he rang off.

Macleod stared intently at the table, still fingering the grain. "It is the only way — we've got to get to her before she finds Methos."

"I don't want him dead either, you know!"

The solemn eyes lifted. "I know. He's your friend too."

"I like him a lot, Mac. I don't want either of you hurt."

It was a point carefully made. Macleod nodded his understanding, then stood up as a knock came at the door. Crossing over to open it, he greeted the stranger. "Hi, you must be Alexi."

"Yes, Mr. Macleod." The man was about fifty, he must once have been blond and his accent was from somewhere around Gdansk.

"Call me Duncan, I don't think formality is needed here." Macleod gestured, indicating that the room was there to be entered.

"Duncan. I am sorry about your fellow, I am even more sorry about loosing Heffernan." He rubbed his head tenderly.

"Did he hurt you much?"

"No, a crack on the head, not even concussion. I was just so surprised that he knew about me."

"Someone told him."

Joe nodded, shuffling his chair sideways to allow Alexi more room. He sat, spare and self–contained, quite easy. Joe made a face, "We let the wrong person know about our set–up. "You just happened to be on the wrong end of that decision."

"I am still alive. It could have been worse."

Duncan sat back in his chair, nodding. "That's true. What's like, this Heffernan?"

"Quiet. He keeps to himself, never picking too many fights. We think he became one of you a thousand years ago, though it might be longer. He fights well, though not with inspiration. Most of all, he loves Cassandra, and without doubt would do anything she asked."

As a thumb–nail sketch, it said quite a lot. Macleod nodded. "Has he done anything like this before?"

Alexi shrugged, countering with, "Has Cassandra wanted this ever?"

"Probably not." Macleod exchanged a look with Dawson; it would be hard to come out of this with the true identity of the man Heffernan had kidnapped still under wraps. Yet it was impossible that they did otherwise. "Alexi, we need you to do us a big favour."

"I thought as much, or you would not have asked me here."

"Cassandra will be flying in at some point in the next twelve hours, we need someone to watch the airport."

"Me?"

"Yes. If you wouldn't mind. It would be for us, not exactly for the Watchers." Joe lifted his hands apologetically.

"You must need her very much."

"Yeah, she has someone we want, a friend."

"And my Immortal has taken him for her."

"That's the idea." Duncan nodded.

"He is a fool for her, my Immortal. No man should bow so before a woman. I will go." He drew back his chair, standing slowly. "I know nothing though, if I am asked, yes?"

"Thank you." Joe nodded. "Alexi, this means a lot..."

"I know — you would not have asked me otherwise. Give me all the phone numbers where you might be."

Joe almost began to say more, then reached for pen and paper and started writing. Duncan stood up, and reaching over shook the Watcher by the hand. "Thanks."

"No problem. let us just hope I find her."

"You know what she looks like?"

"Oh, yes — beautiful, with the eyes of a seer."

"That's her. Good luck!"

"Thanks, I will call when I find where she goes."

"Oh." Duncan stopped Alexi at the door. "Has your car got a cell–phone in it?"

"No."

"Here, change it for one that does, it'll save time." He handed over a handful of high denomination bills.

Alexi took the money, and after a moment folded it into the top pocket of his suit jacket. "Very well. Goodbye, gentlemen. I will call."

With that he was gone, pulling the door firmly closed behind him.

Duncan looked at Joe. "Will this work?"

"Christ knows! But I guess it'd better. Come on, let's go and get something to eat — you can cook."

* * * * *

It was really very cold, lying on the concrete floor. Methos tried to keep warm by reciting every curse he had ever known, which though it was a reasonably long–winded process, didn't seem to make much difference to his lack of core body heat. He knew he should be trying to meditate, knowing from experience that it was the easiest way of dealing with extremes of temperature. But he was too on edge, too wound up with the skeins of speculation and memory, of fear, for any clarity of thought. Despite all the years living in the East, he had never quite managed to master the art of disassociation.

Besides, at least this way he was certain he was alive. He had no desire to be out of it when Cassandra came to chop off his head.

If that was all she intended doing.

He opened his eyes, knowing there would be no difference to the utter solidity of the darkness, but feeling a small part reassured by that basic ability still left to him. The dark was unshadowed, though it sparkled through with the abstract creations of his own mind's–eye. The dark. He hated it. Hated the way it made him giddy, the way it took him back too far into the past when all it meant was evil. Kronos had loved the night, loved the shadows. Whenever he had come to Methos, it had been after the sun had set, when the shadows were deepest, and fear of the unknown most sharp. Superstition perhaps, but he had lived with those feelings for many hundreds of years, and all the science in the world couldn't completely banish them.

The silence was just as absolute. In a way it was quite as unnerving. He had never cared for anything that smacked of sensory deprivation, valuing every one of his senses far too much.

Shifting slightly awoke discomfort, all the aches and pains talking loudly at once. It also reminded him that the darkness had proved awkward. He had already spilled the last of the water trying to find the cup in order to take a drink. Lying on wet concrete was even more uncomfortable than lying on dry. It really was quite silly how far a small drop of water could spread.

At first, when the Irishman had left him alone, he had tried to free himself from the cuffs. They were too tight fastened, and after a while he had lost all feeling in his hands, then his arms. It was about then he had started reciting curses. It was almost a surprise to himself to realise how many he knew.

At least the lack of liquid meant he hadn't needed to try and find the bucket. Though that wouldn't last all night. If it was night.

It felt like hours that he'd been here, at least a whole day, but he knew all too well that in this sort of situation time took on a completely new set of values, not all of which could be relied upon to do anything but cheat.

Without meaning to, he wondered where Macleod was. Then shied away from that subject. Wishful thinking, that was all. Profitless. Concentrate on the hardness of the floor instead, or on exactly what turn if phrase Vortigern had been so fond of throwing at Vortimer. Was it...

Abruptly he stopped thinking, the noise of a key turning in a lock concentrating every atom of his being. Someone, but who?

The light was as blinding as before. Worse. It seemed to take an age before he could squint through watering eyes enough to focus. It was the Irishman, sword in hand. At least he was alone.

Methos forced himself to speak, hating the disused sound of his own voice, hating the fact he was shivering, that it might be mistaken for fear rather than cold. "Hello, come to let me go?"

"No."

"Shame. It's really very chilly in here."

"That's true." Donal it appeared felt the same, for he was now wearing a thick sweater that made Methos feel even more naked than he had before, if that was possible. The big man took a couple of steps towards his prisoner, then stopped. "I was thinking about you."

"How nice."

"About what you said about your hands."

"Mmm." Curled on the floor at his captor's feet, Methos sincerely hoped that the man wasn't suddenly going to turn out to be a sadist.

"Sit up."

Methos closed his eyes wearily, resting his head back on the floor. If he had considered any god might have listened, he might even have prayed.

"Go on."

Well, it was certainly a command. And the boots so close to his head seemed to be steel–capped. Not a nice thought at all. Methos tried to obey, but ended up flopping uselessly to one side. After a moment he collected himself enough to say, roughly, "No, I don't think I can."

"Can't or won't?"

"Oh, definitely can't!" He spoke through gritted teeth.

"Try again."

It really was quite unpleasant, floundering around, but after a struggle, he made it, using the hook tethering his ankles as leverage. At least the exercise had made him warmer, even if it had left a distressing amount of skin on the concrete. "There." He looked up in satisfaction, just seeing the pommel as it smacked hard into his face.

Stunned, he lay still, the world a bleak mass of nausea. He could feel hands on his body, not really wanting to know more. Then his arms were suddenly loose, pulled forward. The pain of that movement made him cry out, almost lost him the thin vestige of consciousness he was holding onto. Dizzy, he was pushed back. Somehow, he kept his eyes open, and was rewarded by the sight of his swollen hands being refastened in front of his body.

He could almost have wept in relief, if the distress the change caused hadn't been so brutal.

"There, after a while that should be easier. Sorry I needed to knock you out, but I needed to be certain you wouldn't escape."

Incapable of speech, though words of thanks, of damnation, skittered giddily through his thoughts, Methos lay still. Escape? he was scarcely capable of thought. He blinked in bemusement as his water cup was straightened and refilled, before the boots walked away and started up the stairs

"Donal!" Methos only knew he had spoken when the broken name spilled from his lips.

Stopped in his ascent, Donal turned with a frown of enquiry.

"Thank you..."

A shrug was his only answer. Though when the man was gone, the door locked, Methos counted himself almost content; for the light had been left on.

* * * * *

Macleod stirred sleepily. It was amazing that he had slept at all, but he must have done so for daylight was streaming through a gap in Joe's curtains. He lay still on the couch, listening, seeing the room around him hardly at all. Joe must still be asleep. The mortal had been exhausted when they'd reached his home. Seeing lines gouging their way under the neat grey beard, Duncan had made him turn in, more or less having to force him to take the bed, refusing it himself, truly content with the couch. He had been so certain he wouldn't sleep anyway, though better by far that he had.

He would have to fight today, fight a skilled warrior, maybe two of them, if Cassandra proved impossible to reason with.

He hoped passionately that it wouldn't come to that. There was no way he wanted to fight her, because he knew he would win, knew he would have to kill her if it went that far.

If he was able to actually bring himself to bring down that final blow. He had loved her, held her naked in his arms and shared such intimacies... But if it was a choice, if she left him with no choice, then Methos' survival was more important. Whatever they had shared in the past, Cassandra couldn't be allowed to kill Methos. It was unthinkable.

With luck, she would see reason. Yet, he really knew so little about her — the Witch of Donan Woods. He knew she was lovely beyond dreams, had power in her voice, and that one of her pupils had been evil. What did that all add up to? Nothing much. She had come to him when she was in trouble, and she hated Methos, though that did seem to be understandable. Yet Methos had also been the one to let her go, way back when she had been his slave. He had also saved her life when she had been determined to fight Kronos. Was any of that in Methos' favour? Or did all the years of abuse mean that she could never forgive him, not least of all for the fact that she had fallen in love with her master.

Duncan frowned at the ceiling. Methos had tried to explain, but he hadn't wanted to listen, and when he had asked again, Methos had turned the question away.

He should have listened more, but he had been so angry; so jealously outraged that Methos could be anything other than his own vision of perfect. Well he knew better now. And knew he didn't care. Not about any of it. He wanted Methos back, wanted everything that their day together had promised — which had been a great deal indeed.

Whatever Methos was, Macleod wanted.

Without doubt, Macleod wished he had never met Kronos, never taken his memories, his darkly possessive soul. Never been used by him, never allowed his anger to wreak such havoc on Methos.

But regrets were just that, regrets. What mattered was the future, and that began with finding Methos and making sure he lived.

Making sure he had survived.

Duncan shuddered, remembering the glassy eyes, the cold, still body. What if he had never come back from that?

Yet Cassandra wouldn't be bothering to come for a dead man. That was certain.

So he lived. So far.

Why hadn't she arrived yet? Macleod sat up and unpeeled the sleeping bag he had been wrapped in. Getting slowly to his feet, still only in shorts and T–shirt, he padded into the kitchen and set the coffee–maker on to do its work. He was really very quiet, but after a while Joe came and joined him, fully dressed, his clothes all rumpled as if he'd slept in them. He was rubbing a hand through his disordered hair.

"Morning, Joe."

"Yeah. Is the coffee ready?"

"Sure." Macleod poured a mug–full, handed it over. "Any news?"

"Nope." Joe sipped thankfully at his drink, then looked up. "Did you sleep any?"

"After a fashion. You?"

"Same." He pushed the mug away, slopping coffee onto the table–top. "God, I hate waiting!"

"Me too." Duncan leant on one of the kitchen units, sipping from his own cup. "Nothing we can d..."

He broke off as the phone rang shrilly.

Fumbling in his haste, Joe answered, "Dawson."

Duncan watched for a second, waited for the flare of success in Joe's eyes, then went to dress in yesterday's clothes.

He was slipping on his coat, checking his Katana, when Joe joined him. He turned, expressionless. "Where's she headed?"

"Out on the interstate towards the mountains. As she's coming all the way from the airport, if we go now we won't be too far behind her."

"Are you ready?"

"Sure."

Macleod was outside, revving the Thunderbird as Joe joined him, taking the brake off almost before the door was closed. They had been driving for twenty minutes when a another call came through. Duncan listened to Joe's monosyllabic responses and fought the urge to press the pedal to the floor. "Well?"

Dawson slipped the phone into his pocket. "You know the tourist cabins out by the lake? She's there. Alexi says she's just arrived, and hasn't spotted him."

"Great."

"Yeah. He's parked up on one of the higher viewing areas and'll wait to show us which cabin. He'll leave then, he won't help."

"I didn't expect him too, I owe him as it is."

Joe nodded. "He won't collect."

Macleod was silent for a moment, then he asked, earnestly. "What about you, Joe, shall I leave you in the car? I won't mind, I do understand about loyalties."

Rubbing the scar on his wrist, Dawson narrowed his eyes. "Mac, Methos is my friend. My personal friend. That goes beyond any loyalty to any organisation." He lifted his head. "I won't let her kill him, but I might get in the way. You run it how you want, I'll obey orders."

"Thanks, Joe. Methos will appreciate it."

"He'd better!" Joe growled. "You just make sure he stays alive to do so."

Macleod nodded and, with a quick check of the mirror, pulled off the highway onto a side–road that led up into the mountains.

The neared their destination became, the less they spoke. The road began to twist and turn, climbing high above the city, above the ocean, taking them through dense patches of pine forest, higher and higher. As it was out of season, there were hardly any tourists around, no walkers, almost no other cars.

The closer they came, the slower Macleod had to drive, until, engine purring softly, they reached the place where Alexi was waiting, the red metal of his hire–car stark against the scenic backdrop.

Letting his eyes scan the terrain, Macleod saw two other vehicles, both dark, tucked away almost out of sight; Cassandra and her Irishman. The forest rose above, forbidding even though he knew this land, had tracked across it many times. Now the enemy was certain, the stakes impossibly high. Methos was here. Alive, he had to be alive.

He was out of the car, pulling his sword free as Alexi came across the gritted ground. He nodded at Joe, but addressed his comments to the Immortal. "There's a cabin just up that path, maybe ten minutes walk. She went in there."

"Thank you, Alexi, if there is anything you want, or need..."

"Nothing. This was no matter. Good luck." He held out his hand, and smiled as Macleod clasped it firmly. "I will return to the house, it will be as if I was never here." He smiled, and turning on his heel with a gesture of farewell, walked to his car and was gone.

"He's a good man."

"He sure is. One day I'll tell you some stories about him."

"Yeah." Macleod looked around, scenting the air, his face quite pale. "I'll go ahead, follow as you can."

"I'll be on your tail, but wait." Joe reached into his jacket pocket and drew out his gun. "Take this, you might need something that works at a distance."

Duncan reached out and took the weapon. It slid heavily into his hand. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I've another..." Joe grinned awkwardly. "You can't kill her with it, after all."

"No." Duncan nodded. Then, with a quick clasp of Dawson's arm, was gone, loping silently up the track.

* * * * *

There was no pleasantness in Donal's face when he unlocked Methos' cellar. Sitting up, awake as he been all night, Methos saw the change and knew that something had happened. He cleared his throat, using irony as a way to keep calm. "Donal, how nice to see you..."

"Be quiet, Horseman."

"Aren't you even going to ask if I slept well?"

No answer. Methos watched the man as he reached the bottom of the stairs and approached, seeing the clean clothes and just washed hair that meant a new day. They probably also meant that Cassandra was on the way — this oaf would need to be clean for his mistress.

"Where..."

"I told you to shut up!"

"But..."

The blow silenced him quite convincingly, knocking him hard to the floor.

"That's all right, Donal."

Tasting blood, sure his cheek–bone was broken, Methos blinked up at the doorway and saw Cassandra, smiling at him.

"Hello, Methos, how pleasant of you to come and visit."

"Cassa..." Methos couldn't finish the name, grunting as a heavy fist casually slapped his face back into the concrete.

"Don't speak before the Lady, Horseman!"

"Thank you, Donal." Cassandra slowly walked down the stairs, her long, birch–grey gown trailing behind her, moonstones netted in silver at her throat, her long hair clouding darkly around her face. She looked beautiful, but then she always had, even when they had found her, filthy and ignorant in the desert sands. Even when Kronos had imprisoned her behind bars. Now her beauty was intensified, happiness sparkling in her eyes as she stared at her prisoner. Methos refused to shiver.

She watched him, eyes lupine with desire. Then she smiled, seeing deep into his soul. "You expect to be tortured, don't you?"

Methos swallowed, found a voice he was allowed to use. "It had occurred to me."

"The way you tortured me, when you trained your poor, pathetic slave?"

Methos made as if to move, but Donal was crouching by his side, a hand holding him still. "How else was I to save your life?"

"Save my life! How can you talk such lies..."

"If I hadn't taken you, Kronos would have."

"And at least he would never have pretended to love me." Cassandra broke off, collected herself, long nailed fingers meshing tightly together. "It would have been easier that way."

"I'm sorry..."

"Regrets are not enough!"

"No."

She stared at him, curled naked on the floor at her feet, blood glistening on his face. Her eyes were hard, certain. "Your death will be enough. Donal, take him outside."

"Lady!"

"What?"

Donal frowned, shaking his head. "Do it here, in private."

"No. I want his soul to be an offering to the Goddess. Outside, in the air and the sun, with the clouds to watch and the trees as witness." She turned back to Methos, lowering her gaze, running it slowly across his body. "You never know, I might even simply take your head. Pray for that, if you can remember how..." Crouching suddenly, she touched his skin, just where his neck joined his shoulders, her nail sharp against the jut of bone under skin. "Do you recall the old ways?"

Hardly able to breath, the touch like spider's legs crawling down his body, Methos asked hoarsely, "Which ones?"

"Indeed, there have been so many." She considered, her hand running across his flat belly, nails scoring the white skin, down to the dark hair that curled around his groin. "The ways of the Goddess have been varied...bloody." She smiled again when he hissed in pain as her nails found soft, tender tissue. "Would she like these, I wonder?" He jerked, biting his lip as she pinched, then the hand was gone, crawling back up his skin. "Or I could order Donal to flay you. He was skilled in that art once, a long time ago. And I'm sure he has forgotten nothing of it, have you?" She turned her head, smiling beguilingly across Methos' body.

He nodded proudly, touching his hand to his heart. "Whatever you ask, Lady."

"See?" Her pale eyes were back, intent, seeking fear as nourishment. "What, no reaction?"

Methos said nothing.

"Surely you know about flaying? Was Marsyas maybe a friend of yours, are you that old? Did you watch him die, hung like a butcher's carcass? I could do that to you — except you wouldn't die. Not for a long while..."

"Cassandra..."

"Yes, do you want to beg for your miserable skin?"

Methos met her gaze, then shook his head, all the words dust in his mouth. He had loved this woman, in his own way. Then he had betrayed her. He didn't want to die, but if he had to, at her hand, then he wouldn't beg for any mercy. He was strong enough for that.

He hoped.

Half closing his eyes, then opening them wearily, he answered her question with as much conviction as he could manage. "No."

"I could break you, given time. You would beg then."

"Anyone can break, we both know that."

They held each other's eyes, then Cassandra abruptly stood. "Bring him." And was gone, walking away in swirl of misty velvet.

Donal stood, then moved to unlock the cuffs around Methos ankles. Straightening he gestured with his sword. "You heard, on your feet!"

Methos closed his eyes, wincing when a kick declared unhappiness with his lack of enthusiasm.

"Stand up, or I'll knock you out and drag you."

That was almost an easier option, but it seemed churlish to go to your death without at least a semblance of self–respect. It took a while, but he did make it to his feet, his body all aching bones and recalcitrant muscles. A push almost upset him again, but he clutched at the bannister and held on with cuffed hands, keeping his feet.

The stairs looked about as steep as Everest, but he climbed the risers one by one, walking into the cabin he had never seen and out into the bright freshness of daylight. It was a disarmingly lovely day; bright, clear skied, though bitterly cold. The mountains rose above them, shadowing the winter–blue sky, and far away he could almost imagine he saw the glint of the sea. Methos brought back his gaze from the distance, and saw Cassandra. She was standing alone on a stretch of grass that ran from the cabin to the forest, her feet were bare, a naked sword was held easily in her hand. Methos paused, seeing her.

"Come, Horseman, it is time to die."

A push urged Methos on, the breeze suddenly sharp against his skin. The world seemed a vast place, reduced to the edge of a fine–honed sword. Somehow he moved, the ground biting cold through the soles of his feet, to stand still, a blade's length away from her tall, still form. "Cassan..."

"Shush. I won't flay you, though I would have liked you to feel as afraid of me, as you made me of you." She shook her head gently. "I can't do it though, maybe I will regret that one day. Would you ever have crawled at my feet, Methos? I don't think so." She sighed softly, sadly, lifting her face to the sky before nodding. "This will suffice. Kneel, Methos. Kneel before your slave."

Methos took a long, uneven breath, then sank to his knees. His hands were clenched before him, wrists still bound, bloodied by metal. When she moved, his flesh crawled where the blade brushed innocently against him, when the hem of her gown caught on the breeze and snapped at his skin. Then he knew she was ready, positioned, sword held in two hands.

Closing his eyes, he straightened, the flare of his nostrils the only sign of distress. He was ready, centred...

Ready...

Then a gunshot broke the world apart.

Stunned, Methos heard a soft cough, then watched as Cassandra crumpled brokenly to the ground, sword falling unheeded from her hand. Somehow he found the strength to roll away to one side, succeeding in almost completely avoiding the blade, its edge only slicing deep into his side, far away from the vulnerability of his neck.

Shuddering with shocking pain, with the release of unbearable tension, Methos tried to claw his way upright, trying to back away from the enraged Donal. Then a man came out of the trees at a run, calling a challenge.

Macleod.

If there was a more wonderful sight in all the world, Methos had never seen it. He sagged back into the grass, close to spent.

Focusing hard, he watched Macleod slow as he approached the small group. He seemed to be breathing hard, as if he had ran far and fast, his colour high. It had all been close. Too close; he could still feel the blade–edge against his neck, its promise...

"Methos, are you all right?"

Methos blinked himself back into awareness, pushing himself up until he was sitting, shivering on the grass. "I'm fine..." The sun had gone, clouds speeding across from the mountain tops. He was very cold, too much blood lost, though the wound her sword had made was already healing. "Be careful, Duncan!"

Yet Macleod was already watching the red–head; wary, balanced, sure enough of where the danger lay. Methos watched them, two big men beginning to circle each other, weapons raised. After a moment Duncan addressed the Irishman. "You can go if you wish, you know. Or fight, it's all the same to me."

"After you shot the Lady? Never!" He raised his sword, and with a battle–cry that chilled the blood, charged.

Finding only empty air.

"You'll have to do better than that!" Macleod was behind him, katana held in two hands, ready.

"Bastard!"

Macleod smiled slightly, then with a frown of concentration, took the offensive.

Donal was very good, light on his feet for a big man, skilled with his blade. But he wasn't Duncan Macleod. The clash of steel against steel rang up into the sky, metal shrieking as it scraped against its own kind rather than the flesh it sought. Methos watched as, fast, dancing on his feet, Macleod led the fight, taking first blood with a nick that drove to bone, not even bothering to pause and savour the moment.

Lost in the skill, the artistry, the need, Duncan fought until there came the moment of truth, and his blade sang, striking deep, taking death as its due.

With a grunt of effort he pulled it free. Breathing hard, blinking sweat from his eyes, he straightened and, with a swinging one handed blow, severed the head from its body.

He turned, met Methos' eyes, began to move — to speak — then convulsed as the first threads of quickening twisted lightning through his limbs. The dark clouds that had clustered overhead thickened, seeming to boil as shards of light ricocheted from tree to tree, using Macleod's body as their focus until he was screaming, arms flung back as the force of it tried to sunder his flesh from his bones. A sharp crack brought him to his knees, head thrown back, neck straining, and rain began to pour from the skies, bouncing off the grass, rustling through the firs to soak the ground. Duncan shuddered one last time, then, with a final whip of light, it was done.

The silence seemed deeper surrounded by the steady sound of the rain. Methos blinked rain–drops from his eyes and finally took the breath his lungs had been starving for. He wanted to go to Macleod, but his body wasn't going to play; all the last hours, days, catching up viciously. There was no energy left in him, nothing but the numbness of what could only be shock. With a soft moan he collapsed onto the wet grass, aware of nothing but cold, and the rain smacking against his goose–fleshed skin.

"Methos?" The voice was soft, unbelievably concerned despite the weariness. It repeated his name, and a warm hand touched his arm.

"Duncan..."

"Aye. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine..." An arm was around his shoulders; solid, safe. "Just fine." Methos blinked and looked up, seeing moisture that wasn't rain in Macleod's eyes. He reached up an unsteady hand, and touched the strong neck, just where a pulse beat under the skin. "What about you?"

Duncan took a great breath, holding on to the naked man in his arms. Suddenly he was grinning, young, carefree, laughter in his voice even though he was crying. "He's gone. Kronos has gone."

"What?"

"The quickening, Donal's quickening, it must have been enough. I can't feel him at all. It is done!"

Methos tried to assimilate the information. He stroked his hand against Macleod's skin and nodded wisely. He was pleased, beyond that he was only just holding onto the narrow thread of consciousness. All he really new was that Macleod was very warm, very close. With a surge of strength, he pulled himself up and placed a kiss on the softly bristled skin just by Macleod's mouth, he felt it smile. "Kronos is no more." Speaking the words, made him understand them. Methos suddenly recalled how to smile. He lay back. "Good, I am very glad."

Macleod wiped the back of his free hand over his eyes, then he smiled crookedly. "It's not finished here though, Cassandra'll come round soon. I'll be back, okay?"

An incoherent sound answered him, and Methos closed his eyes as he was lowered back to the grass.

Macleod stood, just as Dawson emerged from the forest path, like all of them he was wet through.

"Jesus! What..?"

"Methos is alive."

Joe bent down awkwardly, held his hand to the pale skin of Methos' face. He clearly summed up what had happened. "Only just, by the look of things." He looked across at Duncan, who was rummaging in a corpse's pockets. "You?"

"Not a scratch." He took a deep breath. "And I'm free of Kronos."

"Really?"

"I'm sure. Donal was very old, strong. All there is now is him, and I won't have any trouble there."

"Jesus, an added bonus. Did you tell Methos?"

"Aye, I did."

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for the keys to the handcuffs." He paused, then made a soft sound of victory. "Here."

Joe surveyed the clearing, peering through the rain. "What a mess. What about Cassandra?"

"She's alive."

"I'm going into the cabin, see if I can find a blanket to wrap Methos in..."

"Thanks." Duncan was already at his side, carefully peeling the metal cuffs away from torn skin, knowing Methos must have been fighting with them for hours to get his wrists into such a state. Duncan waited a second, almost breathless, then tiny sparks of healing began to close the wounds. He knew the slicing gash in Methos' side was gone, but he had needed to see the healing, know for certain that it was true. Relief seared through him; the sight of this man unhealed, lying on his bed, one he would not forget.

Unwillingly he stood, even knowing Methos was well enough, it was hard to leave him. But Cassandra was still to deal with. Her sword lay on the grass, glistening wetly. Duncan moved, bending to pick it up. He studied the blade; the rain hadn't quite managed to wash Methos' blood from the steel.

A shudder ran through his body, it had been too close. The impossible almost a fact.

He eyed her dispassionately. Then, as he was standing there, she began to stir.

"Hello, Cassandra."

She groaned aloud in pain as the healing took her, then glared at Macleod. "You!"

"Who else?"

"Why?" She raised a hand and touched the rent in her dress, the healed skin underneath. "How did you know where to find us?"

"I watched, waited. I couldn't let you do this."

"I thought you cared for me." Emotion hardened her voice, and for a moment she stared at him, then with a certain effort sat, fingering her hair wetly from her face, beautiful despite the disarray, the rain, the bitter disappointment.

"I do. But not enough to let you kill him."

"It is my right! And you killed Donal!"

"He tried to kill me, it was a fair fight."

"And by the same justice Methos deserves to die!" She spat the words. "He stole my life, I have the right to steal his." Cassandra finally looked across at the still, naked form lying by her side. She blinked rain from her eyes, shoulders stiffening, then asked with sudden breathless expectancy, "Is he dead after all?"

"No. He hasn't been treated very kindly though."

She smiled viciously. "Good."

Macleod sighed in vexation. "Cassandra, let this be. For pity's sake, end it here..."

"Only with his head."

"I can't let..."

"Then it is unfinished." She climbed to her feet, one hand to her side, shivering, drenched, her long dress clinging wetly to her limbs. Realising another person was present, she turned suddenly and saw Joe Dawson. "So, " her lip curled. "You are here as well, a dog on its master's leash!"

"Cassandra..."

"It's alright Mac." Joe awkwardly spread the plaid blanket he'd found over Methos, its colour already beginning to darken in the rain. "Methos is my friend, Cassandra, I thought you knew that."

"You're both fools! You don't understand..."

She was weeping. Macleod went slowly to her side, touched her arm. All the euphoria was gone from him, he seemed suddenly tired. When he spoke to her, it was almost to plead. "We do. But it was all a long time ago. Let him be the person he is now, not the person he was then."

Cassandra turned, wide eyes red with anger, with madness. "Take him away. This is my place, I don't want any of you here."

"But, Donal's body..."

"I'll see to it that he is buried well. He died a warrior's death." She wiped her sleeve over her eyes, then shouted at them. "Get out of here!"

Dawson put a hand on Macleod's arm, and gently tugged at his wet shirt. "Come on."

"But..."

"No. Methos needs you."

It was enough. Macleod turned as if the woman had never existed and was crouching at his friends side. "Methos..?"

"He's out of it — I guess you guys suffer from shock, huh?"

Macleod shook his head, his eyes dark, anguished.

"Come on — let's leave her ladyship to the mountain, get him home."

"Yes..."

And Macleod bent, sliding his hands under the slippery, chill body and lifted it awkwardly into his arms, straightening slowly, as if the weight was more than he had expected.

They left Cassandra standing alone, and very carefully, as the ground was slick with rain, made their way down the mountain. The path was only wide enough for one, so single–file they threaded through the trees. Macleod held Methos close, feeling the beat of his heart against his hand, breathing as he breathed. The rain eased as they went, until it was only light, a scattering of drops carried on the breeze.

Just as even that seemed to cease, Methos opened his eyes. He frowned, bewildered. "Macleod. Are you carrying me?"

"Mmm."

Methos slowly blinked rain from his eyes; he seemed half asleep. Then, licking his lips, he asked curiously. "Why?"

"Because...because I thought Joe could manage on his own."

"I see." Methos blinked again, then lifted one arm under the blanket that wrapped him, touching his hand lightly to Macleod's broad chest.

"What?"

"Just checking that you're real..."

"I'm real enough!" Macleod grunted softly in amusement, sweating under the coating of rain, careful not to stumble on the uneven ground.

For a while Methos closed his eyes, then they were suddenly open, wide and concerned. "Why are you wet?"

"It rained."

"Oh." He considered that, his thoughts seemingly unhurried. Then he nodded in confirmation. "I think I am wet too."

"Soaked."

Methos smiled softly, then rolled his head more securely into the shelter of Duncan's shoulder. He announced, "I like the rain."

"Crazy, that's what you are..."

"Sleepy..."

"Go to sleep then, I'll wake you up when it's time."

"Time for what?"

"Time to wake up." Duncan would have shrugged if he'd owned any spare strength.

"Really?"

"Would I lie to you?"

"Never." And he was asleep in Macleod's arms.

* * * * 

PART III

By the time the trees finally thinned and the path emerged out onto the flat viewing area, Macleod was straining hard to carry the dead weight. The sight of his car was just incentive enough to carry him the last few dozen paces. Breathing hard he made it to the Thunderbird and, with a groan, rested Methos, and his own upper body, on the hood.

He jumped when footsteps sounded behind him, turning his head, wary. "Oh, it's you Joe. Sorry I should have helped."

"Mac, I wanted off that mountain real bad — I was right behind you."

"Great." Duncan bent his head forward for a moment, then straightened, easing his cramped hands from underneath Methos' still body. "I'll put the top down, it'll be easier to get him into the back seat. Keep an eye on him, will you?"

"Sure." Dawson walked the last couple of paces that brought him up to the car, then waited while Macleod wearily climbed into the car turned on the ignition and started the heater blasting out hot air. Then he began the process of folding back the soft–top.

Methos lay where he had been placed, head against the windscreen, body curled, wrapped in wet green wool that smelled about as appetizing as the sheep it must have originally come from. Joe touched the pale skin of Methos' neck, feeling it very wet, bitterly cold. "Mac, can you guys get pneumonia?"

"I doubt it."

"Just as well."

"Yeah." Macleod was there, reaching past Dawson, waiting for him to move before taking Methos' still form back into his arms. "He'll be fine after enough sleep."

"I don't suppose some food would hurt — he's even thinner than before." Joe tutted to himself, and went around to the passenger door, settling himself and his own aching bones with a blissful sigh. Looking back over his shoulder he watched Macleod strip the wet blanket away, covering Methos instead with a coat he'd pulled out of the trunk.

"I don't suppose he's exactly been fed gourmet delight these last few days."

"if he's been fed at all." Joe rubbed his hands together. "At least he's still got his head."

Macleod closed his eyes on the thought, then nodded. "True. It was too close though." He began putting the hood back up, the cold breeze stirring his drying hair where tendrils had escaped from their tie. Then, finally, he got into the car and closed the door, shivering slightly at the rush of warm air hit his legs. He closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the lack of movement.

"Better?"

Duncan found a smile, and aimed it at Joe. "Yeah. Thanks, by the way..."

"Not a problem." Joe dismissed the thank you with a wave of his hand. "Let's just get back to civilization, shall we?"

Macleod put a hand on the brake, then paused, his face stilling into a sombre cast.

"What is it?"

"Where do we go?"

Joe, not understanding the question, answered impatiently. "Your place — the loft, of course!"

"I don't know..."

"What..?" Joe turned, and met Macleod's eyes, the penny finally dropping.

Duncan nodded. "How can we go back there, after what happened?"

"It's not going to happen again. Besides, you think after all this he'll care?"

"I hurt him, Joe, I..."

"Macleod..."

The sleepy, peevish voice made them jump.

"Methos!"

They both turned, seeing a tousled head half–buried under the dark coat. Duncan opened his mouth to say more, but Joe got there first. "Hi!"

"Hello, Joe. You enjoy the party?"

"Great — I'd've brought a swim–suit if I'd been sent an invitation."

"Sorry, next time." Methos yawned widely, then rubbed his hands over his eyes.

"Hey, don't make a habit of this — I'm getting too old for running around mountains after you."

"Talk to me about it." Methos answered dryly. Then he stirred, drowsy. "Are we still up there?"

"On the mountain, yeah."

"And...?"

"Donal's dead, Cassandra's sulking." Though the question had been aimed at Joe, Macleod spoke. "We're just about to get going."

"Did you really carry me down?"

"Yeah, well, you weren't walking anywhere."

"No." Methos was smiling. His eyes were drifting closed, then he opened them quickly as if remembering something important. "I heard you, you didn't want to go back to the dojo. Why?"

"Because...because..."

"Don't be an idiot!" The abuse was really quite affectionate. "Take me home, Macleod."

Duncan turned to Joe about to object, but Joe shook his head. "You heard him..."

With a soft mutter of disapproval, Macleod faced Methos again, though the other Immortal's eyes were closed. "Methos..."

"Don't fuss, Macleod! I'll cope." He smiled slightly, clearly almost asleep again. "And you know I hate cheap hotels..."

"Methos!"

But Methos was oblivious, he was fast asleep, breath coming slow and even.

Joe shrugged, turning back to face the windscreen "Sounds like he wants to go back to your place to me."

"Yeah, but..."

"Mac, just drive, will you? He knows what he wants — a bath, some food and about three days sleep from the looks of it. Trust him for once..."

The comment cut deep. Duncan flinched, then shook his head slightly. "Joe, I do trust him."

Joe glared at him. "So you should. Come on, lets get out of here."

Duncan hesitated, then slid the car into gear. "I still think it's wrong to go back to the dojo." A flick of the wiper–switch cleared the windscreen, then, handbrake off, he nosed the car towards the road.

"Well, if it turns out to be that bad you can move him to the Regency, how's that? Perhaps two hundred bucks a night will make you feel better."

"Joe, if I though it was best, that's where we'd go." He was utterly earnest.

Relenting, Joe nodded, speaking more reasonably. "Yeah, I know. I'm wet and tired and crabby. A meal wouldn't hurt me either, so don't mind the grouches, okay?"

"Okay." Duncan smiled gently, his eyes softening. "So, to the dojo it is."

"I knew you'd see reason..." Methos voice floated from the back seat. Though when Joe turned to look, he was apparently asleep, his long limbs curled awkwardly in the small space.

Joe nodded in agreement, commenting, "It only takes a little time." Settling back into the seat, his turned his face to Macleod, thoughtful. "Mac, d'you mind if I go back to the bar? I'm kind of busy..."

"Sure, Joe. You've already done more than you should've."

"Nonsense! Like I told the Wicked Witch of the West — Methos is my friend. But now it's over, well, now Kronos isn't a problem, can't you two sort the rest out?" He shook his head. "You wouldn't believe how much I've got to do!"

Macleod nodded. "Yeah, I know — the festival." He knew that what Joe was saying made sense, but to take Methos back to the dojo, after everything that had happened, and be there alone with him. It made his mouth dry thinking about it.

Joe tapped his knee, suddenly staring hard at him. "Do it, Mac. You can't run away from this. I'll only be a phone call away."

"He might hate me, when he comes round."

Joe snorted with unbelieving laughter. "If you believe that, you're crazy — you heard what he said."

"Yeah, but..."

"If he came back after the whole Kronos thing, after you'd doubted him, told him to his face that you despised him, what do you really think he wants?" Joe shrugged. "Macleod. Take him home, and if you can't cope, go and stay in a hotel yourself."

It was a simple, perfect solution. Duncan grinned unexpectedly, "You're a genius!"

"Hah!" With a jaded glare at Macleod, Joe settled back. By the time they reached the Interstate he was fast asleep.

* * * * *

It was early afternoon when Macleod finally brought the Thunderbird to a standstill outside the dojo. For a long moment he sat quite still, wrists resting on the steering–wheel. He felt disgusting, filthy, tired, unshaven and distinctly uncomfortable in yesterday's clothes.

Still, thinking about it would get him, or Methos, nowhere. With a decisive move, he turned to assess his passenger, and found himself watched by slightly dazed hazel eyes. "Hello, Methos."

"Duncan...I though I had been dreaming."

"Depends what you thought you were dreaming about."

"Cassandra, and her blade about to take my neck..." He shivered, then suddenly realised that under the coat spread over his body he was naked. Realisation spread over his face, almost clearing the stupor from his eyes. "It happened, didn't it."

"Yes." Macleod agreed solemnly.

Methos frowned, concentrating. "But you came running from the trees, and..."

"Shot her. You can thank Joe for that, it was his gun."

"I will, I will..." Methos blinked blearily, then he brought his eyes back to Macleod's face and focused. "Thank you, Macleod."

"It was nothing." A wide shrug dismissed the days of fear and misery that had brought him to the mountain. Then he was out of the car, unwilling to speak of thanks any more. "Come on, lets get you inside.

He watched as, slowly, Methos uncurled; a groan making it clear that movement was not exactly welcome.

"You want a hand?"

"Yeah."

Macleod had the front seat already tilted forward, and was reaching in to take Methos' arm as he began the process of extricating himself. But instead of offering a hand, Methos suddenly frowned. "Do you mind about your neighbours?"

"Why?" Then he realised quite how much dirty, bloodied skin was on show. "Oh. You could put the coat on."

"Oh, yes." Methos nodded, as if the idea were one of genius. The dark folds were still across his lap, he picked up what looked like a sleeve then stopped, as a wide yawn struck. Then, finally finding the coat's right way up, he pushed his arms into it, tugging the fabric down and around his waist. "There, that'll have to do."

"Yeah." Macleod reached in again, this time easing Methos out onto the street. As Methos straightened, he swayed dizzily, eyes closing. "Methos!"

"I'm fine..."

As the last time Macleod had heard those words Methos had been soaked in his own blood and a hair's–breadth from death, he ignored them. "Come on, let's get you inside."

"I'm just tired."

"Yeah...I know..."

Macleod got an arm around the bony shoulders and guided Methos up the steps, virtually holding him upright as he unlocked the door. Once inside, he propped Methos against a wall, and secured all the locks and bolts.

"Expecting company?"

"Maybe."

"Oh, joy."

Duncan smiled at the irony. "Better safe than sorry." He put a hand on Methos arm, intending to guide him towards the elevator, but all colour simply drained away from an already pale face, and Methos buckled at the knees. "Hey!" Macleod was there, holding the limp body clumsily upright against the wall. "Methos?"

Methos blinked open his eyes, smiled crookedly, and simply fell asleep.

"Damn."

With a sigh, Macleod shifted his hold, and swung the drooping body into his arms. At least this journey would be shorter than the last. He walked across the dojo, seeing himself briefly in the mirror — a tall unshaven gypsy, carrying a half naked man who looked tired beyond exhaustion. Then he was in the elevator and the image was gone.

The loft was as he had left it, clean, smelling of lemon and beeswax. Macleod carried Methos across the room and put him carefully down on the couch.

He stayed crouched on the floor. "Methos?"

There was a slight stirring, then dilated eyes were open, seeking his face. "Duncan."

"You went to sleep."

"I'm knackered..."

Macleod smiled. "You're not that bad yet."

"No?" Methos stirred, pushing himself up until he was sitting. He put a hand to his head and yawned, scratching his fingers through his hair, down through his beard. "I am so bloody tired." With a rueful sigh he looked at his hand, seeing the dirt ground into the skin, the dried blood. He gave a half–hearted grin. "I don't think I should be sitting on your upholstery — I'm very dirty. Can I have a bath?"

"Whatever you want — shower, bath..."

"Japanese massage..."

Duncan stood, heading rapidly for the bathroom, incapable of thinking of such an intimacy. "I'll start filling the tub."

"Thanks..."

He heard the reply but was gone.

Filling the curving, over–sized bath, Macleod added a few drops of Lavender oil, breathing in the soothing, peppery smell. Swishing it into the water, he stayed where he was for a long time, until the warm water was about half–way up the sides. He was still there when the door opened, and a tousled Methos appeared, leaning on the door–frame, still wrapped in the coat, hands deep in its pockets.

"Are you all right?"

Macleod laughed dustily. "Aren't I supposed to be the one fussing over you?"

Methos considered, then replied pensively, "Maybe we should fuss over each other."

Duncan stood up slowly, pain suddenly open on his face. "I really thought you were dead — you were almost dead..."

"I know."

"And everything else, what I did, what Kronos..."

"Duncan, stop it."

The command was very soft, utterly convincing. Macleod gave a self–mocking twist of his lips. "Can I apologise?"

"Maybe later. At the moment I want to get in that bath and be clean and warm for the first time in days. I'd also quite like a cup of tea or six..."

"Sure, I'll get that now."

Methos smiled, as if at a star pupil. Then he slipped the coat from his shoulders and, moving past Macleod, stepped into the bath. He lay down with a rush of displaced water and a deep, heartfelt sigh. "Oh, that is so good." The water lapped to his neck, he sank even deeper, hands under the water, quite content, oblivious to the accumulated dirt that was soaking from his skin. "I hallucinated about being this warm, when I was in that damned cellar." Eyes closing, he sighed luxuriously.

Macleod got as far as a hand on the door. Then he turned back, seeing the long body framed in steam and water. A pulse was beating, light and fast in his throat. "Methos..."

"Mmm?"

"I'm glad you're back."

"Me too..."

Duncan took a soft breath. "Don't go to sleep."

"I'll try not to."

"Right, one cup of tea, coming up."

"Six!"

"Six then, a pot, whatever..." Somehow he was smiling as he crossed to the kitchen.

Realisation stopped him short. He turned slowly, one hand resting on the back of the leather chair, and stared at the slightly open bathroom door. Methos was so calm — though that was partially due to exhaustion. Yet, under the tiredness, there seemed to be nothing but a serene delight in survival. The certainty of his own death must have been complete.

Absolute.

Duncan touched a hand to his own neck, feeling the cold edge of blade against it. To have lived beyond that: under the weariness Methos had to be euphoric. Perhaps this absolute ease was born of that.

Hand dropping back to his side, Duncan went into the kitchen area. He prepared the tea with minimum fuss and very little clear thought. Whereas Methos was calm, he felt strung taut with tension. The whole of the last few weeks were there in his mind, the images dancing like shadows in firelight. America, France, the Horsemen, Cassandra, Kronos and above them all, sliding between every thought — Methos.

Methos. Who was lying naked in the wide bath, oblivious to everything, in a way that seemed to say everything was forgotten, forgiven.

Which it couldn't be.

Guilt edged every thought, every feeling. Guilt, and fear that any moment Methos would wake from his happy haze, and instead of contentment and calm, there would be accusation and anger.

Macleod was certain it would come. Certain.

Deservingly so.

It was unbelievably difficult to go back to the bathroom; being so physically close to someone he no longer had the right to touch hurt. Finally, he picked up the mug of good, strong tea, straightened his shoulders and went. He pushed at the half–closed door with his free hand, easing it open.

He was greeted by a mumbled, defensive, "I'm not asleep..."

Both Methos' eyes were closed though.

Duncan smiled with affection so deep it was close to pain. "So I can see." He also saw the state of the water. "I think you brought half the mountain down with you."

"Mmm."

"Are you warmer?"

"Getting that way, I've been topping up with hot."

"Why don't you shower off, get clean, you can have another bath afterwards, or later even, after you've slept for a bit." Duncan put the mug down at the end of the bath, just by Methos' head.

"Can I?" One eye opened, peering up through the steam.

"You can do what you want."

"Wow." Methos sat up, spilling water onto the floor. He paused, leant over the side to see the extent of the damage, then sighed. "I hope the floor doesn't leak." Then he remembered the tea and reached for it, taking the mug between his two hands and sipping happily.

"No, Amanda does just the same thing. Can you stand okay?"

"I'm tired, Duncan, not incapacitated!" He took another couple of gulps, then handed the mug to Macleod.

"Well, next time you try and fall asleep standing up, I'll remember that and let you fall flat on your face." He took the half–empty mug and put it back on the side of the bath.

Methos straightened his shoulders, bracing his arms on the sides of the bath and paused. "I did that?" He looked momentarily confused.

"Yes."

"Oh. Well, you'll just have to keep an eye on me while I shower off." And he began to lever himself out of the water.

Macleod hesitated, then lent a hand, sliding it under Methos arm in assistance, adding his own muscle to a precarious endeavour. When Methos was upright, and seemingly staying there, Macleod bent down and pulled the plug, letting the filthy water rush away. Carefully objective, he turned on the shower over the bath, set the heat, then straightened. Methos was leaning against the tiles, eyes closing. "Hey! Get under the water."

Blinking gently, Methos obeyed. Sighing as he stepped under the shower. "This is a hedonist's bathroom, Macleod." His voice was slurry, deliberate, speaking as if the effort involved in forming words was all that kept him awake. "A shower–stall, a bath with a separate over–head shower, a bidet — all you need is a steam room." He put one hand out, supporting himself against the wall to duck his head under the water. Something must have upset his balance, for he stumbled slightly, righting only when Macleod held his arm. Turning his face, he slowly wiped water from his eyes and blinked at Macleod, saying perspicaciously, "You'll get wet you know."

"It doesn't matter — everything I'm wearing needs to go in the wash, including me." Duncan picked up some soap and offered it to Methos. "Here."

"Thanks." Methos took the soap, dropped it. "Damn..."

"Hang on." Macleod fished the bar from the swirling water and sighed. "Come here..." Carefully, his mind an empty space filled with white noise, Duncan soaped Methos' body. It was as awkward, clumsy process, but he managed.

Despite the fact that it would have been easier by far to simply get under the shower himself, he couldn't bring himself to do it. It would have involved a greater degree of intimacy that he could allow himself. Not now, while Methos was so out of it.

Maybe never, his mind insisted. And that was too appalling, too...

Instead of thinking, he soaped and shampooed from a distance and the water did everything else.

Finally, it was done. Macleod switched off the shower, and guided Methos out of the bath, wrapping him in one of the bath–sheets. Rubbed quickly dry, he was almost asleep again, and in fact was so the instant Macleod lay him down in the wide bed, even before the covers had been pulled up.

Macleod ran his hand over the new sheets where they lay folded under Methos' chin. With his eyes closed, he still looked very tired, the skin around his eyes thin, shadowed. Unable to resist the temptation, Duncan let his finger trace the fine–boned jaw, brushing up lightly into the soft hair. It was wet, dark against his fingers, close to black. Macleod sighed, then straightened, wincing as his neck–muscles ground tight with tension.

He knew a workout was needed, badly. But there was no way he was going to leave this room and spend any time in the dojo, not for a while anyway. He turned away from the bed and considered. Well, the next best thing to physical exercise was a shower. He would hear from the bathroom if Methos wanted him. And it wouldn't take long...

Macleod was almost salivating as he started stripping off his shirt.

* * * * *

Clean, dressed in fresh clothes, his hair damp around his shoulders, Duncan had emerged from the bathroom, checked on the sleeper, then wandered aimlessly around the apartment for a while. There was nothing he really needed to do, certainly nothing that couldn't wait. There were bills to pay, letters to write, but his mind was still too agitated to let him sit and concentrate on anything very much at all. He picked up two different books, one after the other, but neither made any sense, so they were replaced neatly on the shelf. Music would have been a help, but that might disturb Methos, so all the opera CD's stayed in their cases. In the end he went and sat on the spiral staircase, a few steps from the bottom. He sighed, easing the knees of his grey linen pants before leaning back on his elbow. It was hardly the most comfortable place in the world, but he could watch, yet feel as if he wasn't a voyeur, intruding.

Methos was very still, his body a slight disturbance of the expanse of bed, curled slightly onto one side, a hand slipped under his cheek. He was breathing slowly, evenly. Duncan found himself trying to match breath for breath, and shivered, turning to look out of the window.

As the view was hardly exciting, his eyes soon found their way back.

Time went by without acknowledgement. Without Macleod realising it, as he sat entranced, the day slipped into evening. When he finally turned again to look out of the window, the steetlights were bright dark against darkened buildings. He blinked in surprise, in disbelief. For it to be this late, at least two hours had to have gone by. Impossible, but when he went to stand, his muscles had stiffened, as if from long immobility.

Slowly he stood up, stretching, easing both arms above his head and bending back. Well, whatever else had happened, the worst of the tension seemed to have gone. There was something else, he was hungry.

Walking away from the bed, he clicked on a couple of side–lights, then the overheads in the kitchen. Food. But what sort? Going to peer into the fridge, he frowned thoughtfully. Pasta, salad, or there were enough fresh vegetables for soup. With soup, at least when Methos did finally wake up, there would be something for him to eat, something that wouldn't spoil and was easy to re–heat.

And it was something he could cook without thinking.

Pulling out a selection of vegetables, he started chopping. His fingers dealt automatically with leeks, potatoes and sweetcorn, while his brain settled into a sort of freefall. From where he stood at the utility–island, it was possible to keep an eye on the bed and its occupant.

Methos was alive.

What a simple, basic delight.

After a while the soup was bubbling contentedly to itself. Macleod cleared up the kitchen, then wandered back over to the sleeper. No movement. He nodded to himself, then went to one of the wooden chairs and, picking up the nearest book, began to read.

Occasionally he went back to the soup to stir, to taste, sometimes adding a few herbs or seasoning as the whim took him. Once he went to the thermostat and upped the heating in the apartment. Apart from that, he idled, waiting.

When the soup was done, he pulled the pan off the ring and stirred in one last handful of fresh herbs. The potatoes had broken down, leaving a thick — he tasted a spoonful — mouth–watering supper. His stomach grumbled. Loudly. There really was no point waiting. He reached for a bowl, and ladled himself a portion.

Though he had made it himself, Duncan had to allow the soup was delicious. Seated at the pine table, he ate slowly, contentedly, idly reading the thoughts of Milton concerning angels.

Until a low sound of absolute distress splintered the silence.

His thoughts were so elsewhere, so confused, that a second went by before he moved, crossing to the bed on stumbling feet. Methos was still asleep, his body tangled in the sheets as if he had been fighting to escape, twisting and turning, but knotting himself tight instead of finding freedom. One arm was clear, fist clutching hard at cotton, the long muscles knotted as he fought whatever demon sleep had conjured.

Against the dark blue cotton of the pillows, Methos' skin looked stark, slick with sweat. Macleod swallowed dryly, his own face almost as pale. Horror widened his eyes, tied his mind in knots.

What if the demon who tormented Methos was Duncan Macleod? How could he wake Methos, unsure if the face he was seeing was his own? Macleod closed his eyes, the food he had just eaten acid in his gut.

Not often cursed with indecisiveness, now Macleod hesitated, watching, until he could bear it no longer. He had nightmares enough of his own to understand, to know that being woken by far preferable to staying locked inside the terror. No matter who did the waking.

Then Methos twisted suddenly, arcing away from the sheets. The same low sound escaped from his tight–closed mouth, raising the hairs on Macleod's arms, on his neck. It was too much. Leaning forward, he touched a hand to Methos arm.

With a bitten off gasp, Methos woke. He stilled, eyes shut, chest labouring, though he seemed to hardly breathe, as if he was listening.

"Methos.."

If anything, Methos stopped breathing entirely.

"It's all right, you were dreaming." Duncan spoke softly, earnestly. "You're safe, I promise..."

With a long, racking shudder, Methos opened his eyes.

Macleod took his hand away from the cold arm, only to have it snatched back, held hard within Methos' own.

"Duncan!" Methos pushed himself up, fighting free of sheets and blankets, using Macleod as leverage. He was clearly dazed, the dream still dilating his wide, shocked eyes, a trickle of sweat running slowly down his chest. "Duncan..."

"You're safe, it was a dream." Hesitating only for a breath, Duncan sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing his thumb over the hand that held his own so tight.

"A dream..."

"A nightmare, I had to wake you."

Methos closed his eyes, then opened them in a hurry. He found enough self–possession to laugh, albeit shakily. "Don't worry, I'm not complaining." He bent his head, avoiding Duncan's eyes, though he seemed to have forgotten the hand he gripped.

Taking a steadying breath, Macleod asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Dark, dilated eyes flashed up at him, pain shivering across them, then turned hurriedly away.

It was as if he had been slapped. Macleod tried not to show any reaction at all. Tried desperately. But Methos understood; despite the fact that he was looking firmly at the bed, somehow, by some strange resonance, some intuition, he knew. Startled, he glanced up. Head tilted slightly to one side, and understanding widened his eyes. He straightened resolutely, took Macleod's hand in both of his own. "I wasn't dreaming about you, you know." He seemed to give a small shrug, then, after a deep breath, went on. "There are thousands of reasons for me to have bad dreams, Macleod, thousands. I've lived too long for it to be otherwise."

Duncan considered his own personal array of nightmares, hundreds from a life a few hundred years long. What must it be like to deal with the same multiplied a hundred–fold? He couldn't begin to comprehend the strength of sanity that would be needed. Yet, why would an old nightmare surface now? Even knowing he was insisting too hard, he had to know. "I can see that, but..."

"I'm telling the truth, I promise you."

"Methos..." Duncan shook his head.

"Trust me."

Joe's words came back to haunt Duncan. But he did trust Methos, trusted him with life and love and everything that was important. Then why was it so hard to believe this? Duncan shook his head miserably, silently cursing an insecurity he hadn't known he possessed. "I'm sorry. I won't pry...I don't want to intrude..."

"Duncan Macleod, you have a right." Methos, his drawn face animated by emotion, breathed in hard. "If anyone in this whole damn world has a right, it is you."

"Because I saved your life..."

"No!" Methos, exasperation pinching his nostrils, shook his head. Because I love you... he thought. But the time wasn't right to remind Macleod of that, yet his tired brain couldn't come up with any other reason. "Because. Just because, all right?"

"Oh, yeah!" Duncan smiled reluctantly.

Methos shivered slightly, his fingers tight around Macleod's hand. He hesitated, then asked almost steadily, "Was it just my dream, or is she still alive?"

There was no need for a name. "Still alive. Mad, I think."

"Ah."

"So it was her you were dreaming about."

"Duncan!" Methos exclaimed the name in exasperation. He watched his companion shrug ruefully. Then Methos sighed, and answered, "Very well, I'll tell you." He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, staring hard at nothing. When he spoke his words were terse, almost bitten off. "I was being flayed. She was watching, directing every knife cut, every slice. It was something she threatened to do to me. And, you see, I had seen it done, once, a long time ago, and I never forgot. I've dreamed of it before, though never as the victim, before I'd only ever watched, and that was bad enough." He blinked, his face softening as his eyes travelled across Macleod's solemn face. "See, you weren't there at all."

"I'm glad, but what a dream..."

"Donal, her man, was skilled in the art, or so she said. But she didn't do it, the threat was enough. Maybe she looked in my mind and found the fear of it there."

"She can't read minds!"

"No?" Methos looked sceptical. "She had unusual gifts even then. And she has power in her voice, that you have to admit." He shrugged dismissively, suddenly uninterested. "Whatever. Maybe it was just luck. And I could have been dreaming of all sorts of things..."

"He was a Druid." Macleod stated suddenly, finding the memory surface. "As was Cassandra for a time. She wasn't lying, he could have done it, and would have done without a qualm." If anything, he looked even more bleak. "I'm glad I got there, that I found you." He met Methos' eyes. "I'm very glad that you are alive."

The answering smile was a twist of sensual lips. "Me too."

Macleod was suddenly aware of how close they sat, of how near Methos was. He swallowed dryly. "You must be starving. I made vegetable soup."

Lifting his head, as if scenting the air, Methos nodded happily. "I thought I could smell something tantalising."

"Hungry still?"

"Ravenous."

"I'll bring a bowlful over..." He gently slipped his hands from Methos' grip.

"No. I'll get up for a bit." Methos rubbed his eyes, then began to push back the covers.

"D'you want something to wear?"

"Mmm." Methos was standing up, stretching. Duncan realised he was staring at the elegant line of back, buttock and thigh, absorbed by the casual nudity, and turned away.

He came back with a large silk robe. Taking it with a soft word of thanks, Methos slipped it on, knotting the cord around his waist. He lifted his eyes, meeting Macleod's, raising his eyebrows in query when the stare continued, totally unaware that the dark green fabric did subtle things to the colour of his eyes, fading the hazel, making them seem quite emerald.

"Duncan?" He was frowning.

Macleod blinked in confusion, then stepped away. "Come and sit down. Do you want a tray on the couch, or what?"

Ignoring his companion's erratic behaviour, Methos followed in his wake. "The table. Soup's never easy to eat off your lap."

"That's true."

While Macleod busied himself by the hob, Methos settled himself at the pine table, clearing a space ready for the food. There were a few books on the surface, idly he picked through them, but without very much energy, his fingers leafing through pages, the words merely patterns on paper. He was still astoundingly tired, quite drained physically, and not much better mentally. Macleod had been so insistent about the dream, so pressured by guilt. There had to be a way to take that guilt away, it was more than important to do so. But the means to such an end eluded Methos completely. The dream was still in his mind, echoing through his thoughts, tying up any sort of coherency. The pain had been so vivid, her voice controlling the weave of the blade as it peeled away skin...

"There, I hope..." Duncan broke off, suddenly alarmed. "What's the matter?" Methos was grey, sweating slightly.

"Nothing, nothing..."

Duncan put the bowl down on the table, steam and aroma rising into the air. Methos breathed in, images running like a flicker–book through his brain. Then the smell hit him, and though he was in reality smelling only soup, he could almost taste blood and fear, the butcher's–block stench of a distant place. In an instant, he was on his feet, heading rapidly for the bathroom.

He wasn't there long, and when he emerged, far steadier, colour back in his face, Duncan was waiting by the door. He took one look at Methos, seemed to relax, then opened his arms, offering what little comfort he was able. There was a brief second, where Methos stood quite still, then he stepped into the offered comfort.

Macleod held him gently, sighing as the awkwardness faded and Methos softened against him and hands moved to return the hug. Methos lowered his head, resting it in the curve of shoulder, and took a deep shuddering breath. Duncan closed his eyes, rubbing his cheek against the dark, soft hair. He moved his hands, holding tighter. Warm silk was against his palms, he rubbed gently, feeling stark ribs move as Methos breathed.

They stood quite still for a long while, then Methos lifted his head from Macleod's shoulder. Both barefoot, they were enough of a height for him not to have to look up very much. "Thank you." He didn't pull away.

A diffident smile flickered across Duncan's face. "I've never had quite that reaction to my cooking — usually people wait until they've eaten."

Methos smiled, as he had been meant to. "No, I..." He breathed deeply again, shaking his head slightly. "The dream was there. I closed my eyes for a second..."

"Oh." Macleod ran his hands up to Methos' shoulders, holding the solidity of muscle and bone in his hands. "How do you feel now?"

"Fine. It was just a moment."

"You want to try eating again?"

Methos considered, then nodded. "Why not."

"Come on." Macleod guided Methos before him, hands on his shoulders, not letting go until he was seated. He peered over him at the soup. "It is very light..."

"It smells good." And it did. His stomach had settled and all he felt was hunger.

"Methos, I won't be insulted if you'd rather have a sandwich."

A quick grin, then Methos had the spoon in his hand. "No, this is fine. Sit down or something, I'll get a crick in my neck talking to you."

Pulling another chair from under the table, Macleod sat, watching obliquely while Methos slowly ate. After a few spoonfuls, Methos glanced up. "I'm fine. And this is very good, did you make it from scratch?"

"Yeah, I had some spare time this afternoon."

"It wasn't wasted." Methos smiled at the Highlander, then went back to the serious task of eating.

When he was done, the last scrap scraped up, spoon carefully replaced in the bowl, Duncan reached for the empty dish as Methos sat back with a sigh. "More?"

"I couldn't. Thank you, Duncan, that was wonderful, delicious, but enough for now."

"There's plenty if you want some more later." He went to the sink, running water into the dish. He glanced across, seeing Methos rubbing his eyes. "Do you want to go back to bed."

A yawn was answer enough.

"Go on."

"Yeah." Methos pushed back his chair and stood up, stumbling slightly as he moved away from the table. "Gods, I haven't been this tired...ever." He made no move to go back to bed though.

Macleod watched him, seeing the reluctance, knowing without being told that the hesitancy was because of the dream. Wiping his wet hands he walked away from the sink. "Methos, I'll be here for a while, until you go to sleep, then..."

"Where are you going?" The response was immediate, Methos turning in alarm.

"I was going to sleep in the dojo." He shrugged apologetically. "I didn't think it was right that I stayed..."

Methos narrowed his eyes, then sorted out what Macleod meant. "You mean, because of what happened here, don't you. Because of Kronos."

Duncan nodded, standing quite still. "Yes."

"For goodness' sake! Duncan, that wasn't you, not really you!" He gestured emptily, pain just there behind his eyes. "That it happened is something we both have to deal with, and it may take time and patience. But don't let it burn you up inside, don't start believe it was you who did it. Madness lies that way, and I need you sane. I need you."

Duncan seemed to shudder at the raw confession. He looked at Methos' face, seeing the vulnerability behind the arrogance. "Methos, I..."

"You can't be afraid that he's still there, that you might run crazy again?"

"No." Macleod shook his head, tossing the towel to one side. "I'm certain of that."

"Good." Methos nodded intently.

"I am me, I am Duncan Macleod. But..."

"Duncan, sleep with me, please. Wake me when I dream..." He shivered, arms wrapped tight around his body as he stood alone. When he continued, it was as one vanquished in a distant war. "We only have to sleep, if that is all you want."

That was too much. Macleod was there, at his side, hand reaching then hesitating, falling back to his side. "Want... This has nothing to do with what I want! I thought I had lost the right to ever touch you again."

"No." Methos lifted his chin, stating his case. Even tired as he was, with dark shadows under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks, he looked proud as some ancient king. "I don't think that will ever happen."

"Methos... This has been such a mess."

"The worst. But it is up to us to see it is finished, that what happens now is...without taint of the past. If we can forgive each other, then we have hope. And I forgave you a long time ago, Duncan Macleod. I promise you that." He gestured dismally. "Of course, it would help if we could forgive ourselves as well."

Duncan was almost blind with emotion. "There is nothing for me to forgive. You made your choices, you walked away from your past. I know I condemned you, but I was wrong."

"Duncan..."

"Wait." He stepped closer, taking light hold of Methos' arm. "I was blinkered before, I wanted you to be my image of perfection. I have learned that there are others." He stared levelly into calm eyes, wanting to say so much more, to kneel in apology, in repentance, regretting every moment of pain, of distrust, of accusation. But he also knew that now wasn't the time, that this was taxing enough to Methos' strength. He breathed in, long and deep, and took the subject back to where it needed to be. "Methos, please may I share your bed?"

"No more talk of the dojo floor?" His eyes were narrowed, close to mischievous.

Macleod shook his head in agreement. "None."

"Then, yes, my bed is your bed — quite literally in this instance." Methos sagged slightly, shoulders relaxing, the amusement taking the last of his energy.

"You should be in bed."

"I've been trying..."

"Come on."

With the decision made, Duncan seemed lighter. Without relinquishing contact, he led Methos across the room, turning off lights as he went. He drew Methos to the side of the bed, turning him, taking the robe from his shoulders, letting it fall unheeded to the floor. Methos climbed back between the sheets, curling his long body, quite suddenly almost asleep again. He hardly noticed as Macleod stripped off his own clothes, disappeared into the bathroom, then came back and slid in naked beside him. Methos muttered sleepily, closing the gap between them, a hand curving round Macleod's arm. As he stilled, he was asleep.

Macleod watched him for a long time, waiting to ambush any nightmares, but then he too grew sleepy and before very long, his eyes closing as if weighted by stones, he slept.

* * * * *

Macleod woke uncertainly, emerging from a night peopled with the ghosts of the dead. He lay on his side, quite still as his thoughts stirred sluggishly.

Then he remembered.

And opened his eyes to see Methos, sitting cross–legged at the end of the bed. As if unable to help himself, Duncan smiled.

If there had been any lingering wariness on Methos' face, it was gone, almost as if it had never been there. "Morning." All of a sudden, he looked very pleased.

"Morning. You look happy."

Methos smiled, the sphinx incarnate. "Mmm, I suppose I am."

Waking properly, Duncan studied him. Wrapped in the voluminous folds of the silk robe, he seemed relaxed, rested, quite serene. "How d'you feel?"

"Alive!"

Duncan nodded in understanding at the answer, appreciation softening his face. "Yes." He eased onto his back, stretching slightly.

The sphinx closed its eyes, breathing in contentedly through pinched nostrils. "You know, I always forget just how good mornings can be."

"You mean even before eleven? To be awake this early I know it had to be something special."

Methos opened amused eyes. "Yes, survival."

Duncan propped himself up on bent elbows. He tilted his head and pursed his lips, then announced blithely, "It suits you."

"Thank you." Methos bowed his head courteously.

Duncan grinned. "What time did you wake up anyway?"

"About half an hour ago."

"You should have woken me!" Duncan protested.

"Why? You didn't sleep that well."

"How do you know?"

Methos shrugged, his fingers toying with the knotted ends of the gown's cord. "I woke from time to time..."

"With nightmares?"

Duncan sounded so guilty that Methos smiled. "No. I dreamed, but then so did you. You were restless." He paused, the ease somehow slipping away from his demeanour. "Your dreams, they didn't seem very nice."

Wary, Duncan asked, "Did I...say anything?"

"You called my name once. It woke me."

"Sorry..."

"No matter. Whatever it was you were dreaming about, it went when I touched you, said your name." Methos looked down, weaving the cord through his fingers, sliding it back and forth. He studied the silk intently, feeling the way it rubbed, soft and sensuous, against his skin. "And you were meant to be the one fending off nightmares, not having them!"

"They happen." Duncan sat up, reached across the bed. Methos blinked then, letting the cord fall, took Macleod's hand. He did nothing. Then Duncan drew Methos forward, pulling until he moved, long legs uncurling, shifting up the bed until he was sat close by. Even then Duncan didn't let go. Instead he nodded gravely. "That's better."

"I was quite happy down there."

"Were you?"

Methos smiled, his eyes crinkling. "No." He leant forward, tilting his head to one side, his eyes without any trace of cynicism, without a trace of levity, without any of the diffidence that made him seem so arrogant, and met Macleod eyes. "I prefer it here." Another inch and they were breathing together, lips almost touching. "Much more..."

A slight tilt of his body, a minute change of balance, and the closeness was a kiss, mouth meeting mouth, warm, dry. They brushed together, feeling skin tease against skin, watching; desire like greed in their eyes. Methos nibbled gently at the soft pout of Macleod's mouth, flicking it gently with his tongue. Then, closing his eyes, he slid in deep, commanding, drawing a soft groan from Macleod, a sound so erotic it sent the muscles of his back rippling with need. Eager now, he moved without breaking the kiss, shifting to one side, bringing Macleod down with him until they were lying flat, impeded by bedding, by clothes, but pressed tight together, mouths wide, devouring.

Methos groaned when a hand stroked down to brush against his nipple, touching through the silk. His tongue stilled as overwhelming sensation rippled through him. He knew Macleod was smiling as he lapped at his mouth, tongue delving, exploring, but response was beyond him. It was slow, tantalizing and Methos couldn't move, as if turned to stone by delight. Breathing was impossible. But it was too much, too much... His eyelids flickered, then Methos broke away, a hand on Duncan's wrist, his eyes glinting through hooded lids. "Don't..."

"Don't?" Macleod lazily enquired, but his fingers were still rhythmically moving, just touching at each stroke. "You like this..."

"Yes!"

"Then why?"

"Because." Methos wriggled, and suddenly Macleod was on his back and Methos was bending over him, hands pressing his shoulders into the bed. "Because I couldn't think!"

Duncan grinned. "That was the idea."

"Just you wait..."

And he bent his head to the beautifully defined chest, taking one puckered and eager nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, making Macleod arch into the caress. Methos grazed his teeth across the skin, twisting his body so his legs held Duncan pinned. Then he began to lick, very slowly, very lightly. After a moment, Duncan was breathing hard, his hands gently stroking through Methos' hair. He groaned again, then whispered his lover's name, "Methos..."

Eyes, almost black with desire, lifted to meet his. Methos nodded, point made. "This is too much, isn't it?" Methos was so close to coming, he was trembling. Macleod was almost as bad. Lightly shifting, he was off the bed, letting the robe fall to the floor. "Shove over..."

He slipped inside the covers, the expanse of naked flesh that greeted him making him moan as if in pain, the pleasure as acute a sensation. Hands touched flesh, skin pressed to skin. Macleod cupped his palms around the curve of Methos' arse and pulled him close, sliding heat against heat. Methos' eyes were open, alight with need, though when Macleod eased away and then pushed close again they flickered shut in concentration.

Somehow, they were kissing again, a gentle, almost careless opening of mouth to mouth, tongues barely touching. They were both far too close for subtlety. Sweat prickled where they touched, belly to belly; skin became slick, sticky with the first of more viscous fluids. Breathing erratically, they whispered broken phrases softly, urgently around open mouths. Lip to lip, sucking clumsily at skin, suddenly quite oblivious to any words at all, Macleod stilled, muscles quivering, mouth wide. His head went back and he shuddered once, unaware that Methos was biting his shoulder, coming hard himself, groaning in lush abandon.

The aftermath left them weak, though they still moved slowly around the last echoes of pleasure. Slick with semen their cocks nuzzled together, all urgency gone. Methos kissed the skin he had bitten, then eased his hands from Macleod back, relaxing slowly. He looked dazed, though his companion was in no better state. They stayed close, unwilling to part.

After a moment to allow his breathing to recover, Duncan shifted onto his back, sliding one arm up to let Methos settle against it.

"I was going to make sure you had breakfast before anything else." Duncan announced in tones of one surprised at himself.

Comfortable, content, Methos sighed happily. "I ate some biscuits."

"You mean you cooked?"

"No!" Methos pinched him lazily. "I ate some cookies, okay?"

"Bloody language barrier..."

"You knew very well what I meant. Actually, I was just happily surprised that Mr.Healthy had any in his cupboards."

"They were probably Richie's."

"Oops. I'd better get some more, or he'll really think I'm a villain."

"He'll cope." Duncan licked his lips reminiscently. "You know, I wondered why you tasted so sweet."

"Biscuits and juice. I was hungry."

"You must have been — when did you last eat real food, anyway?"

Methos considered, then gave a sort of one–sided shrug. "I had something at Joe's, but before that..." he tailed off vaguely.

"We could go out, eat breakfast properly somewhere?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Or I could cook?"

"No, lets go to a diner." He didn't make a move to get up though, quite content where he was. "That way there's no washing up."

"True."

"Then we can come back, have another little nap, then see how long we can last in the next round."

"The next...Methos, are you plotting to get me into bed again today?"

"Yes." Methos nodded, unrepentant. "I have plans." He was dark and mysterious.

"Have you." Duncan sounded very interested.

"Lots of them."

"Lucky me..." Duncan kissed the blunt tip of Methos' nose, making it wrinkle in a way he considered quite fetching.

"Hey!" Methos objected, maybe to the wetness of the kiss.

"It was the nearest bit of you."

"It would be..."

Duncan heard the wry tone and protested. "It's a great nose."

"It's a big nose..."

"I like it."

Methos smiled. "Very sweet of you, Duncan, but it is a veritable prow of a nose." He turned sideways. "I fitted in well in Rome, at least."

"I bet. Mmm, I like the idea of you in a toga..."

"Very drafty things, togas. Give me jeans any day of the week."

"Me too. Kilts were just as bad. "

"At least when the Romans moved to Britain they adapted their dress for everyday — the Scots chose the kilt!" He clearly thought this a sign of national insanity.

"Ah, but it proves our hardihood, wearing just a length of wool in all weathers."

Methos shivered. "Crazy..."

"This from a man who likes to listen to his Walkman in the rain — without benefit of an umbrella."

"I like the rain!" Methos poked Duncan's side. "You can't tell me you like being cold."

"No. But then I don't wear a kilt anymore."

"Never?"

"No."

"I'd like to see you in one — a proper plaid, not a modern kilt though."

"Only if you wear a toga."

They both laughed softly, amused, almost aroused. Methos found himself plotting, he liked the idea of unwrapping Macleod. In fact, he just liked the idea of Macleod.

There were so many possibilities. Though most of them could be saved until after Cassandra had been sorted out.

Cassandra. She slipped into his thoughts like a shadow. They needed to talk about her, but it seemed so mean to spoil the moment. Impossible.

Instead he lifted shifted, propping himself on one elbow, resting the other on Macleod. "Duncan."

"Yeah?"

Methos stared down at him, seeing the uncertainties behind the contentment. Time would sort it all out. Just time. Methos smiled, but all he said was, "I'm very sticky."

"Me too."

"Bath, shower?"

"Shower." Macleod touched a hand to Methos arm, running a finger up the soft, almost hairless skin. "Together?"

"No!"

"Why not?" Macleod's finger stilled in mild offense.

"Because I want a real breakfast, and if we shower together I probably wouldn't even have the energy to eat a lightly boiled egg if you fed it to me."

"Food then. It will help improve your stamina..." He broke off with a sound remarkably like a squeak. "I'm sorry, it was a joke!"

Methos removed his hand and smiled sweetly. "Good. Though you might regret that comment later on." Then he grinned, properly, sitting up. "You know, when we met — and I was busy fancying you something rotten — I really wondered if you weren't used to men."

"I've had my share." Duncan grinned back. "Did you really think I was a virgin?"

"Of a sort. I'm very glad I was wrong..."

"Mmm, virgins need too much work."

"That's true." Methos nodded in agreement.

"I never had that problem when I thought about you."

Methos groaned. "Don't tell me, I came on like an old queen."

"No. You don't differentiate between the sexes, you see people not gender. I like that."

"Duncan, I have lived in very different times. I've known cultures where men took male lovers as a matter of course, where brothers in arms shared their swords, their bed, everything." He sighed softly. "And I lived with Kronos for a very long time."

Duncan hesitated, then took advantage of the ease with which Methos had spoken of Kronos. There was a question which had been bothering him, he hoped it might be answered. "Was Silas your lover too?"

"Silas?" Methos looked surprised. "No. Why?"

"You hated to kill him, I thought..."

"I don't remember much of that afternoon." Methos drew up one leg, wrapping his arms around it. "Silas was an innocent. He liked me, and I liked him. But he would no more of thought of trying to sleep with me as try and fly. He knew I belonged to Kronos, and he worshipped the ground Kronos trod on."

"But..."

"I know." He sighed. "You see, Silas was kind to me. When the Horsemen were breaking up, when there was nowhere left for our particular style of mayhem, Kronos became quite unbalanced. For a time it had been good. I thought I loved him, you know, for a while. Then the world progressed, and he changed. And I bore the brunt of it." He shrugged. "Silas was the only one who cared. He helped me when I wanted to die, and in the end he helped me finish the Horsemen off, helped me leave it all behind."

"I'm sorry."

Methos made a disgusted noise. "It was a long time ago, and Silas is better off dead. He never adjusted to the changes, he hadn't been happy for nearly two thousand years. I didn't know I'd told you anything about him."

"After the quickening, you were upset, you just said you regretted killing him."

Methos narrowed his eyes as he remembered. "We shared a quickening. It was a bad one, I felt as if my nerves had been scoured with sand."

"I've never known that before, the sharing, the energy was incredible." Duncan shifted onto his side, head propped on a crooked arm. His free hand traced patterns on Methos' thigh, stirring the scattering of hairs. "You don't recall it at all?"

"Just fragments." One hand lifted in apology. "It was the end of a pretty awful couple of weeks."

Duncan nodded. "Yeah. Silas helped you again, didn't he."

"Mmm." With a sigh, Methos tried not to remember. "How do you know, more of Kronos' memories?"

Duncan nodded. "Yeah. I wish I didn't have them."

Methos seemed taken aback, then he simply stated, "Then forget them. You've done it before."

"I'll try." But so many of the memories concerned Methos, and Duncan wanted to understand the ancient Immortal he had fallen for, and every scrap of information was to be hoarded, kept and poured over. Even Kronos' memories were precious, because they were of a time he would never be able to share. Besides, they also showed him what Methos would enjoy in bed. If he could ever gather up the courage to try any of it.

"You dealt with Kalas' memories without a problem, didn't you?"

"Sure. I'll work on Kronos'." Duncan's hand sneaked upwards, and flaked dried semen off Methos' belly. "Come on, let's get clean."

"And go eat. I'm starving!"

"Steak for breakfast?"

Methos made a face. "Do you mind! I'm not madly keen on steak for supper, let alone first thing in the morning." He bent sideways and kissed the rising curve of Macleod's shoulder. "I want a bath, okay?"

"Fine, there's plenty of hot water. I'll take the shower."

"I love your bathroom!"

"Hedonist."

Methos was half out of bed, he turned to look over his shoulder. "You only just noticed?"

"Nope, I've been pretending, get on with you."

Methos grinned and walked away, quite aware of Macleod's admiring stare as he went.

* * * * *

By the time they were ready, it was time for lunch rather than breakfast. Duncan drove them down to a diner he liked, and they ate a long, leisurely meal. Methos consumed more that he had in almost the whole of the previous week, though that was still not exactly a huge amount. The food was well cooked, fresh and plentiful: their waitress smiled, cheerfully efficient, and happily brought them refills of water and then coffee. They picked off each others' plates, and idly discussed anything from literature to sport, as long as the topic was neutral, and the name Cassandra wasn't involved at all.

Duncan paid, and afterwards they strolled back to the car. The weather was cold, Winter close by. The parking lot was strewn with rotting leaves, the few trees' branches quite bare. Methos pushed both hands deep into his coat's pockets, waiting for Macleod to unlock the car.

He felt strangely detached from unease, from the fears he would normally have tried to outrun. Nothing mattered, not now. It was as if his feelings for Macleod curled around everything; a pillow against despair. So much had happened, so much emotion and pain had rocked him in the past few weeks, that it was as if he had reached saturation point, and all he was capable of feeling was the emotion of the moment; and that emotion was Macleod. In fact, Duncan Macleod was all that mattered in the whole world.

Already the return of Kronos was seeming like a dream, which was fine. He didn't want to pick over the dead bones of that time. He wanted to deal with it the way he had learned to deal with anything that might prove dangerous to his sanity, to bury it deep and pretend it hadn't happened.

What did it matter, any of it. Kronos was dead, and, for the first time in longer than he could recall, Methos knew himself to be happy.

The rest was mere self–indulgence.

Methos breathed in the cold air and admired the world. Even the fact that Cassandra lived was little more than a shadow at the edge of his thoughts. He was optimistic enough to hope she might forgive and forget, though in truth he knew that was next to impossible. She would come for her vengeance, sooner or later. Though later might be better, it didn't really matter. As long as Macleod lived, nothing much mattered at all.

He realised that the engine was running, the door was open, and that from inside Duncan was peering up at him strangely. "Sorry..." Pulling the door wide, he slid into the passenger seat, closing himself in. "I was day–dreaming."

"Yeah, well, it didn't look that happy to me."

"In fact, I was just thinking that I am happy."

"Really?"

"Yes." He nodded, settling the folds of his coat about his knees.

"Despite everything?"

"Maybe because of it." He turned to face the Highlander, seeing him clearly, loving the ease of his body, the way he sat, strong hands loose on the wheel. Methos smiled gently, desire a tendril that wove through his veins. "Because of you." The simple truth tasted very sweet on his tongue.

Some memory of sadness flickered behind Macleod's melancholy eyes. "Methos, I..." He broke off, then gave a rueful, twisting smile and admitted, "I feel the same."

"Good." Methos held the lingering stare, shivered, then settled back into his seat. "I never fancied unrequited love."

"Me neither. Good job it isn't a problem then."

They smiled secretly, intent. As professions of love went, it was hardly the most flowery, but the sentiments rang clear and true, and neither man felt any doubt about the others' veracity.

Methos reached out a hand and touched Macleod's arm, tapping it lightly with his finger. "Do you think we're always going to choose car–parks as places for baring our souls?"

"As long as that's all we bare." Duncan gave a quick, wicked grin. "I don't care."

"Good. Shall we go home?" Methos tried not to ask too eagerly.

Duncan was about to nod, then he stopped. "We really should go and see Joe first."

With a sigh, Methos agreed. "Mmm." The he considered, thoughtfully. "I suppose that way lunch will have more time to digest."

"Yeah. I don't fancy acrobatics at the moment." He put the car in gear and started to pull away.

"Who said you were getting acrobatics? I might want you lying still, not moving a muscle — except one of course."

"You might want..." Duncan emphasised the personal pronoun.

"Oh, yes. I might want." So did Methos.

"Going to be in charge, then?"

"I told you, I've plans."

Duncan clearly had problems negotiating a left hand turn as well as contemplating the glint he had seen in Methos' eye. He was grinning, though a certain tendril of wariness wove through the humour. "I'll look forward to them."

"So will I!" Methos rubbed his hands together in satisfaction, his sharp face clearly amused. "I'm sure the anticipation will be good for us."

"Yeah, how long do you think we have to stay at Joe's?"

"That depends what he's up to. There might be some band playing as part of this festival he was talking about."

"Could be interesting."

"Yeah, maybe."

Duncan heard the doubt and asked, "Don't you like live music?"

"Not much. I prefer it on tape so I can utilise listener discretion with such things as the volume control, and the off switch."

"Bet you were fun in the fifties and sixties..." Duncan's voice was dryly amused.

"I spent most of those decades in the Himalayas, Lhasa doesn't have much of a live music scene — not electric, anyway."

"You missed a lot of fun."

"I know. But I wasn't feeling particularly sociable at the time, and before I even knew it was happening, it was gone."

"That explains Chubby Checker."

"It certainly does!"

It took about twenty minutes to get across to Joe's, the traffic light and all the lights in their favour. Macleod turned into the parking–lot by Joe's, easing into a space. He was smiling reminiscently as he switched off the ignition.

"You're looking uncommonly smug, Duncan."

"Mmm, I was remembering."

Methos peered around. "I suppose we could have chosen a more romantic location."

"Hey, don't knock it! At least it happened."

"Very true, O Wise Philosopher!"

"Yeah, you read enough Sartre, it rubs off eventually."

"Sounds very nasty."

"It can be."

They climbed out of the car and wandered into Joe's, pushing into the dimly lit bar find a mass of people and the stage set for a performance. Duncan looked at Methos and raised an eyebrow in query. A resigned shake of the head was his answer.

They walked over to the bar, avoiding tables, people, and a waiter moving at full tilt with a loaded tray, to find Joe waiting for them, standing tiredly at the counter. "Hi."

"Joe." Duncan nodded, and Methos raised a hand in vague greeting, turning back from his inspection of the crowd to smile.

Dawson looked at them, and knew there was too much that couldn't be said in public. "Come back into the office." He moved away, not waiting for a reply.

With the door shut, the decibel level fell considerably. Joe sat himself at the desk, while Methos sprawled on the couch and Macleod perched on its upholstered arm.

"You both look better."

"Sleep and food — nothing like them." Duncan agreed.

"And friends. Thanks Joe."

"Hey! It was Duncan did it all — I just climbed up the mountain to find it was all over."

"You were there, that was enough — thank you."

"And he gave me his gun." Duncan pointed out quietly. "It would all have been pretty futile without that."

"I knew they were invented for a reason." Methos stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankle. "You look tired yourself — how's the festival."

"You mean apart from the bands who haven't shown and the histrionics of a blues diva young enough to be my granddaughter? It's been great — I can't wait for the next one."

"Fun, fun, fun, then."

"Oh yeah!" Dawson grinned all of a sudden. "Well, some of it has been great, and if I wasn't on the committee I'd've enjoyed this a hell of a lot more. Guess what I'm not doing next year."

"Being on the committee?" Methos hazarded mildly.

"Right." Dawson nodded. He glanced between the two Immortals and paused. "You heard from the Witch?"

Duncan shook his head, but Methos asked, "The Witch?"

"As in Wicked Witch of the West — its what Joe calls Cassandra."

"Good heavens, I didn't see the resemblance until you said that."

"Yeah, yeah. But have you seen her?" Joe asked impatiently.

Methos made a face. "Nope."

"We're not going looking for her, Joe." Duncan picked up a match–book from the table at his side. He examined it very closely. "But we'll be waiting."

"You'll have to do something, surely? You can't spend all your time looking over your shoulders, because from what I saw that was one determined lady, and she was after you, Methos, no question."

"I know." Methos sighed, looking up obliquely. "I don't think either of us want to challenge her though."

Duncan nodded in agreement.

"She won't go away." Joe tapped a finger on the desk, emphasising his point. "She was mad, maybe insane."

"No, she was pissed, I'll give you that..."

"Duncan, I saw her close to." Joe was insistent. "That was one unwell lady."

"I still don't want to track her down." Duncan tossed the matches down and looked at Methos.

Who nodded. "She might calm down, go home."

"And pigs might fly. What's happened to you two?" The Immortals looked at each other. Joe sighed. "Okay, I get it." Joe muttered something under his breath, then spoke very clearly, as if to two congenital idiots. "Just because you are living in a little cloud of happiness, it doesn't mean that the world has gone away. I'd bet good money that she's plotting something."

"Maybe." Methos was apparently quite unconcerned. "We can sleep with the alarm on."

"Yeah, that'll really help. You two are hopeless." Joe sighed. "I've arranged to get her Watcher back from Europe, he should be here in a day or so. That way at least I'll know where she is."

"Joe." Methos spoke the name quietly, straightening.

"What?"

"I know we all want it to be, but it isn't as easy as that. What are we meant to do, go and find her, execute her?"

Irritated, Dawson met Methos' face, and finally saw the fear and uncertainty behind the facade. He glanced at Macleod and saw something similar in his still face. Joe grimaced, acknowledging their point. "So, you pretend nothing is wrong, rather than deal with her death."

"Unless she comes to us, yes," Duncan agreed. Though he and Methos had never discussed this, he was certain they both felt the same, and a glance confirmed his guess. "There's been enough death."

"Methos, I thought you were the one who believed in dealing with these things, getting them out of the way as necessity demands."

"You mean because I killed Kristen?" Methos asked.

"And you were quite sure what Mac there should have done about Ingrid, the assassin, why's this one different?"

Methos sighed. "Do you really want to know?" He sat quite still.

"Yes."

"Because, whatever she has become, I made her. If she is insane, then I made her insane. How can I go and take her head, knowing that? I may be callous, but..." Methos went to say something more, then simply shrugged and looked at his boots.

Duncan touched his shoulder, eliciting a glance, and what might have been a smile. "You're not callous, just realistic."

"So I used to think."

Duncan looked at Joe in a moment of silence. Then he spoke, hand still resting on Methos. "Cassandra was my friend, or at least I believed so. Maybe she just used me, I don't know. What I do know is that if she challenges either of us, she'll die. We'll be careful. And there are two of us, it'll be harder for her to take us together."

"She managed last time."

"Joe, has anyone every told you that you're a cheerful bastard."

"All the time, Mac, all the time." Joe grinned, unrepentant. "I don't believe in pussy–footing around. Facts are facts and let's face it — she's dangerous. Hell, I don't want either of you to end up neatly trimmed at the neck."

"Yeah, thanks Joe." Duncan nodded, quietly acknowledging the friendship that ran between the three of them.

"Damn it, this is getting mawkish — I want a drink, how about you two?"

Methos looked up at Macleod, who shrugged as if to say, up to you. Methos turned back, his face softening. "Thanks Joe, a beer would be good."

"Fine." He glanced at his watch. "Okay if we have it in the bar?"

"Sure." Duncan stood up, straightening his dun–coloured coat as he did so. "Why?"

"The next set's due to start — if the artist feels up to it."

"The blues diva?" Methos asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, or the spoiled brat, depending on your point of view." There were clearly no doubts as to his own. "Come on, I should get back anyway."

The Immortals followed their friend into the bar, the noise hitting them as they entered the room. Joe made a face at them, then was claimed by one of his staff.

Methos looked at Macleod, and together they headed for the bar.

* * * * *

In the end they stayed about another hour. The singer may have been the bane of Dawson's life, but she had a clarion–clear voice that sang of heartache and longing with more understanding than her youthfulness should have allowed. The crowded place quieted as she sang, in itself a tribute to her skill and her ability to conjure emotion. When the last chord faded away, the room held itself breathless, then there was a barrage of applause, of whistles and cheers.

Methos put his beer down and clapped enthusiastically, a hard lump in his throat. He turned to Duncan, and caught the answering look. There was a lingering melancholy in the hooded eyes. It wasn't the place, but Methos wanted to take that strong body into his arms and offer comfort, be comforted in turn. They held each others eyes, stilling, silence pooling around them despite all the noise.

It was time to go home.

They walked back to the bar. In the middle of serving a string of thirsty customers, Joe looked at them ruefully, shrugged, then hardly managed to say goodbye. They left as the music began again.

The journey home was silent, a fine ribbon of awareness weaving between them as they approached the dojo. Nothing mattered but the wanting. Even the unresolved, raw matter of Cassandra faded; there were others details to occupy their thoughts.

Duncan parked the car, killed the engine and climbed out. It was late afternoon, the breeze was harsh, blowing paper and leaves down the street. He had left the heating in the loft on high, it would be warm, inviting. He shivered slightly, wondering what was planned.

Methos was just by him, asking softly, "You okay?"

"Yeah." Duncan turned, serious. "Thinking of you."

"Good things?"

"Yeah."

Methos smiled. Then he turned and led the way up to the door.

They stepped out of the elevator into warmth. Methos sighed happily, then, as Duncan followed him, he turned in ambush. The kiss began as sweet, then as they melted into each other, deepened into passion. They stood just there for a long time, arms wrapped around each other, bodies close. Then Methos lifted his arms and wrapped his fingers around the sleek head, ending the kiss. They both looked drugged, eyes heavy, pupils wide and dark. Methos kissed Macleod's mouth, once, chastely. Then he smiled, and stepped away.

Stripping off his coat he tossed it, sword and all, across the couch. Duncan's followed. In turn they used the bathroom, Methos the last to emerge, walking out to find Duncan waiting for him, still dressed, though his feet were bare. He had stripped the covers off the bed. Methos went to him, stood a hand's span away, and reaching out with one finger, ran it across the curving swell that marred the line of Duncan's pants.

When Macleod reached for him, he held up an admonishing finger. "No, Duncan. Patience..." He stepped closer, running his hands up the soft wool of Macleod's sweater, feeling the heavy muscle, pressing a palm to the beat of his heart. He whispered softly, "Let me...let me..." and his hands were under the wool, touching flesh, making them both tense, anticipation tingling through their veins.

Methos, slowly moved his hands, the wool lifting around them as they slid upwards, golden skin baring. He rubbed the tight nipples between finger and thumb in passing, a smile just there, behind his eyes. Then the sweater was off, peeled away, leaving Duncan ruffled, moaning slightly as Methos bent and put his mouth to skin. He licked at the firm body, tasting it, wetly sliding up until he was nibbling gently at the throat, running his tongue over the collar–bones, then slowly retreating, bending further, until he had to kneel, his tongue snaking into the tight curl of navel while his hands deftly released Macleod's belt. A slide of zip, a button released, and he pulled all the remaining clothes down with one movement, letting the hard cock spring free to bob close to his face.

Methos looked up, his eyes wicked. He cupped a sure hand around the full, tight sac, rubbing his fingers lightly between the clearly defined balls. The cock he left alone, bringing his other hand around to stroke the back of Macleod's thigh, fingertips tracing small circles. After a moment, he breathed on the heated arousal, the impossibly soft caress enough to make Macleod's knees begin to buckle.

"Lie on the bed..." The command was soft, yet Duncan shivered, fear adding a certain frisson to desire. He backed away, almost in relief, sure that another breath would have made him come without having been touched once. He stepped out of the pool of clothing, moving until the back of his knees hit the bed. He sat, pulling himself into the middle of the wide, wide bed, then lay back.

Methos was naked when he joined him. Duncan reached for him, held him close, skin to skin. With a shift of muscle, Methos was across Macleod, weight on knees pressed either side of the taut belly, his buttocks rubbing tantalisingly by the eager jut of Macleod's cock. He ran his fingers over the beautiful face, seeing the grain of the fine skin, smelling the shampoo Duncan had washed his hair in that morning. When Macleod tilted his head invitingly, Methos bent down, and they kissed again, soft, easy, wet kisses that lasted seemingly forever.

Until, lithe and agile, Methos was gone, off the surprised body, kneeling by its side. He touched a finger to Macleod's lips: silence. With a smile of reassurance, he slid down the bed, mouth trailing little kisses, licking at skin as he went. There, without any preamble, he swallowed the slick head, breathing deep of arousal, then he was diving down, opening mouth and jaw and throat to take the length and width of Macleod's far from inconsiderable cock. It took three attempts, but by the third his nose was pressed to dark hair and he swallowed, again and again, until Duncan was moaning incoherently, hips lifting off the bed. Only then did Methos pull back, letting himself breath. He flicked his tongue over the spongy glans, dipping into the slit, sucking the first few drops of bitter seed as if they were nectar. Hands were stroking his hair, and taking pity, he slid his mouth around the straining heat, going down hard, fucking his own throat ruthlessly until Macleod was shuddering, calling out in Gaelic, fists clutching at hair, at the sheets. Then, at that point, when all it would have taken was one last swallow, Methos pulled away, climbing back up the sweating body to kiss the open, desperately panting mouth.

This time it was wild, abandoned. Methos used deceptive strength to keep Macleod flat, pressing his wrists to the bed while their mouths met and desperately ravaged each other. When it was too much, Methos drew back, his mouth reddened, eyes slitted with need.

Releasing his hold, moving away, Methos watched curiously, but Macleod didn't move, his hands staying flat above his head. He was lost, gone far into a world where only touch had meaning. Running a finger down the sculpted chest made the heavy body arch invitingly. Addicted, Methos bent again and tasted skin, licking at a nipple. Duncan moaned, pushing his chest up, seeking more, harder sensation.

Instead, his own body only just under better control, Methos reached under the pillow for the tube of lubricant. Moving carefully, he climbed between the strong thighs, pushing them further apart, making room. With gentle fingers he stroked the quivering belly, gentling, arousing. His own cock was impossibly hard, arcing upwards, slick with his own need.

To fuck Duncan Macleod...

He couldn't think about it, could only do it.

Muscles rippling, he eased Duncan legs up, sliding his knees underneath, tilting the pelvis to make the angle right. When he pressed the cold gel to the secret entrance to Macleod's body, they both shuddered. He watched as slitted eyes opened, and with a shift Macleod was easing his legs onto Methos' shoulders, offering himself completely.

Methos swallowed hard, running a hand up one thigh in thanks, in reassurance, in the need to simply touch. Then, with fine control, Methos pressed into the dark opening.

He held his cock in one hand, weight balanced against the bed on the other. Breathing evenly, he felt the body give, felt the first slide of his flesh into his lover. Slow and even, slower, he eased insistently inwards, feeling Duncan's body shifting around his, the play of muscle, of tension, of pain overcome, telling him that this was right, this was delight. If there was discomfort, it mattered less that nothing, and as he pushed home, Macleod groaned lushly.

Sweat trickling down skin, Methos paused, erratic breaths lifting his chest, hollowing his belly. Here and now, this moment in time, this was what he wanted to remember. Being part of Macleod for the first time. This act which made them one.

He met Duncan's dazed, faintly enquiring gaze and managed to smile in reassurance. Then, sure and certain, knowing the angle that would bring pleasure, he moved. Reaching to take the slightly softened cock into his hand, Methos pushed home again, feeling the response through every part of Duncan's body and his own. Again, and the hardness pulsed back, filling his hand eagerly. Again, and Duncan moved with him, mouth open, arms wide against the bed as he clutched wantonly at cotton, the muscles in his arms, in the curve of his belly, rippling.

Methos watched him, moving more certainly, pushing deeper, loving the immediate response visible in every ecstatic line of Macleod's body. Methos was shaking, a fine tremor running through every limb as he fought for control. There was such heat, such tightness holding him, and it was Duncan. He groaned out loud, closing his eyes, sliding his knees apart, finding greater leverage, impossibly greater depth.

Lost to any ability to prolong the sweet torment, he fucked hard, taking pleasure as he gave it, feeling the response, knowing that Duncan was urging him on, calling his name again, and again. Pistoning now, hard and fast, their bodies slick, sure, it was close, closer.

Then the world fined down to a single need and Methos, head thrown back, shuddering as if mortally wounded, slammed home, screaming aloud as the body he fucked came, wet heat spilling over his clutching fingers. Pressure around his cock milked him, pushed him way over the edge, savagely stealing any choice away as the world span out of control, shattering into a thousand pieces, each one of them brilliant with glory.

There were tears on his face, though he was quite oblivious. Stunned, he held quite still, the silence broken only by their desperate, erratic breathing. With a strength of mind he was blind to owning, he slowly slid free of Macleod's body, sobbing as the contact was lost. Hands were reaching for him, and Duncan was there, kissing his face, hands holding him, bringing him near. He collapsed brokenly, falling into warm arms that held tight, was stroked with hands that felt unsteady. Burrowing into skin, he hid the tears. In the sweat–scented darkness, he felt the covers drawn over their bodies, and breathed shakily.

For a long while, they simply lay together, skin weighted to skin, no single thought clear in the aftermath of such intensity. They held each other, as gradually heartbeats slowed, breathing became normal, and sweat dried on skin.

Then Methos swallowed, and turning his head, freed a hand to wipe across his eyes. Cautiously he focused, and met Duncan's eyes.

The Highlander was looking at him, warmth and affection, and something that might have been called love, soft in his eyes. Methos blinked, breath catching in his throat. Leaning back in the curve of a solid shoulder, he managed a single shaky word, "Hello."

Duncan gently tightened his hold. There was comfort and more in the simple gesture. "Hello yourself."

Curled together, side by side, they smiled.

Bringing a hand from the covers, Macleod touched Methos' face, fingers delicately touching the damp skin around his eyes. "Are you all right?"

Methos gave a half–hearted, disconcerted laugh. His voice still sounded choked. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just been a while...and, well..." He shrugged apologetically. "It was you."

Duncan nodded, understanding. "And it was you..." He gave the taut body a gentle squeeze. "Methos, it was incredible."

Blinking uncertainly, Methos saw sympathy, amusement, and deep satisfaction in the warm brown eyes. "Duncan..." He could feel tears itching at the back of his eyes again and closed them, resting his head on the solid curve of Macleod's shoulder.

"Hey! Wasn't it good for you?"

Methos gave a choked laugh, and chidingly pinched some skin where his hand lay. "Oh, yes, I suppose you could say it was good."

"There."

"It's just that," Methos swallowed, sniffing gently, all cynicism gone. "I don't normally go to pieces."

"Methos, I don't mind! Anyway, I felt pretty emotional myself."

Narrowing his eyes, Methos looked at the close face, and finally understood that his own, intensely emotional reaction, had not been alone. "Duncan..."

"Yeah, well..." Macleod moved slightly, nearing their mouths. His eyes were dark, unending refractions of burnt–umber and ebony. "I love you, Methos."

"Duncan..." Methos took a ragged breath, blinking away moisture. "I love you, have loved you, will love you...always."

"Aye." Duncan nodded as if taking a vow. Then his eyes fell closed and he brought their mouths together. The kiss was sweet, tasting of salt. Afterwards they wrapped together, lying close. There was silence around them. Quite still in each others arms, they neither slept nor woke, the world a thousand million miles away from their contained contentment.

Shadows had filled the room when they stirred, almost together, lifting their eyes to see the elusive reality of happiness.

Methos smiled, "My own tame Highlander..."

"Tame?"

"Only sometimes..."

"Only when you want me to be."

Duncan..." Methos hesitated, then turned his head and kissed the hand that lay close by. He smiled as it curled around his face, thumb stroking his cheek. "Duncan." It was affirmation, acknowledgement.

"Yeah." Macleod pulled Methos into an embrace, body to body, heads tucked against shoulders. After a while he pulled back, a rueful smile in his eyes. "Let's get up, or I'll want to do it all again."

"That's a problem?" Methos asked with amused curiosity.

"No. But I want a shower, and something to eat, and then maybe we can start over."

"Sounds good to me..." A finger ran up Macleod's back, as Methos' eyes narrowed smokily. "We could share a shower?"

"Could do," Duncan nodded gravely.

"Or a bath. I like baths..."

"Messy..."

"We could be careful?"

"Highly unlikely, but if you want a bath..." Duncan shrugged, quite clearly ready to agree to anything.

"Yes." Methos quickly kissed Macleod's mouth, then slid out of bed. Naked he stood by the side, one hand held out invitingly. "Come on then."

Duncan stared at him, smiled. "Do I get to wash you?"

"If you want." Methos opened his hand, the gesture of amused acceptance.

"Really?" Duncan sat up.

Methos nodded, teasing. "Mmm, I haven't had a body slave in a very long time."

"Poor you..." Duncan grinned, then pushed back the covers and climbed out of the bed. He took the offered hand, drawing Methos close. "We'll have to see what we can do about that, won't we...as long as we take turns."

Methos breathed in abruptly, then answered softly, "I think that could be a mutually agreeably arrangement."

"I thought so." Duncan ran his hands down the long back, letting his palms cup around curving flesh. He shivered when Methos' cock stirred against his own. "Bath?" He licked his lips.

"Mmm." Methos closed his eyes, tilted his head. Through dark lashes he was aroused, amused, in love. "Whatever you want."

"Come on..."

Duncan released him, all except for one hand. Leading him into the bathroom, he set the bath running, added a few drops of oil, then took back the embrace as if he hungered for touch.

"Perhaps I should wash you." Methos rubbed the back of Duncan's neck, then unfastened the tie securing Macleod's already loosening hair. He combed it with his fingers, letting it spill darkly over the golden skinned shoulders. Steam was curling around them, the noise of the large bath filling loud in the room.

"Perhaps we should wash each other."

"A brilliant idea." Methos nodded abstractedly, concentrating on the silken feel of the unbound hair sliding through his fingers. "Can I wash this?"

"If you want."

"I want."

"I can do yours too." Duncan brushed a hand over the ruffled crop.

"There's not much to worry about."

"Is that why you had it cut — convenience?"

Methos blinked, realising that Macleod's knowledge of what he had looked like came from Kronos' memories. Kronos, who had loved it long, loved winding his hands in it... It had seemed as good a reason as any to cut it short. Methos shrugged, dissembling. "Fashion changed. And I like it like this."

"He liked it long, didn't he?"

Startled, Methos couldn't answer.

"Kronos." Duncan stated the name, as if the personal pronoun hadn't been explicit enough. He went on, his voice rough with sympathy, his words warmly accented. "I'm not surprised you prefer it short. Besides, it must be much easier."

"Much." Methos agreed. He stared into the near, intent eyes. And smiled. If Duncan could learn to deal with his memories so matter–of–factly, then he could to.

Wreathed by steam they smiled, their mouths joining in a kiss. For a while they stood, forehead to forehead. Then a trickling sound broke them apart, laughing. Duncan hurriedly turned off the water, then released the plug to let a large amount run away. He grinned back over his shoulder. "I knew we should have had a shower."

"It's only a little water, and there'll probably be more on the floor soon."

"Really?"

"Mmm." Methos stepped into the water and lay down with an ostentatious sigh. The level rose alarmingly, but stayed within the confines of the bath. However, when he shot out an arm and pulled Macleod in after him, it didn't.

Macleod wiped water from his face and, peering over the edge of the bath, sighed.

"Well, you did say the floor doesn't leak..."

"Well, this will certainly test it!" He turned back, his body sliding closely against Methos. Even though the bath was large, they were both tall men, and there wasn't an awful lot of room. Duncan flipped hair out of his eyes and smiled. "This is intimate..."

"Isn't it."

"What was it you wanted? Oh, I remember, a body slave. Now, what exactly would a body–slave do..." He moved an arm, ignoring the rush of water onto the floor, and cupped his hand around Methos genitals. "Get you clean, yes, I can see that, but what else? This?" He squeezed, gently.

"Duncan..."

"Methos?"

"You're wicked, you know that?"

"I think I do. Come here, I want to kiss you..."

"I'm not very far away."

"So you aren't..."

Somehow, they were giggling like kids; arousal suddenly there, out of nowhere. And a lot more of the bath–water spilled unnoticed to the floor. Slick and slippery, they kissed again; wide, open kisses that quickly made them both aroused. Without finesse, they took each other in hand, legs wrapped together, feet jammed against the end of the bath, mouths joined. Climax came with shattering speed, hardly giving either of them time to think, to do anything but ride the rush of sensation as their bodies arched together. It was hard and fast, laughter still there on their faces as they broke apart, wide–eyed, breathless.

Methos turned slightly to one side and peeled his hand away from softening flesh, wincing in surprise as his own body was released. He licked sweat from his upper lip and closed his eyes, groaning in happy exhaustion.

"You can't go to sleep here." Duncan was grinning, lazily splashing water over Methos' groin, teasing the milky threads of semen from the dark, curling hair.

"No?"

"Well, you can if you want, but," there was a rush of displaced water and he was standing up. "But I'm hungry."

Methos opened his eyes, clearly finding the sight of Macleod quite gratifying. "You going to cook?"

"No, I thought we might take some crackers and cheese and stuff to bed, eat there."

"Sounds good to me." Methos nodded, then with a surge of energy he was standing as well. Shin deep in water they smiled at each other, content. Methos nodded as if answering some silent, internal question, then touched Duncan's chest, running gentle fingers up the sculpted contours. "Come on, turn the shower on, you wash. I'll clean up the floor and shower when you're done."

Duncan looked at the floor, making a face at it. "All it needs is a mop. I'll do it in a bit."

"No." Methos used Duncan for balance and stepped onto the floor. The water lapped at his toes. He wriggled them, splashing gently. "I think I'd better do this, don't you?"

"There's a mop in the kitchen, by the side of the fridge." Duncan considered, then turned the shower on, shivering as cold water hit him before it turned warm. "If I ever do any rebuilding, I'll have a bigger bath installed."

"Much bigger than that and you could swim in it." Methos opened the door and walked into the main room. Only a small tide of water followed him, along with the sound of Macleod singing. Pausing for a moment to identify the song, Methos laughed, then went off to find the mop, joining in the chorus as he went.

After their energetic bath, and the cleaning up operation, neither man wanted to do very much. Duncan changed the sheet and Methos piled a tray with easily eaten food. He also opened a bottle of wine, and the two of them settled in bed, pillows heaped behind them. They talked idly while they ate and drank, then read, until, at a not very late hour, they grew sleepy. Duncan took the almost empty tray back to the kitchen, tossing the empty bottle into the trash, leaving the rest on the side to be dealt with in the morning.

He returned, clicked off the light, and slid under the covers. Taken into warm arms, he sighed his contentment into the darkness, and slept.

* * * * *

For some reason, Macleod woke early. It was light, but he knew it was closer to dawn than any hour Methos would prefer to wake at. So, with a possessive smile at the curled form of the sleeper, he slid from the bed, found a pair of gi trousers and walked down to the dojo, whistling, binding his hair back as he went.

He warmed up slowly, quite at ease, body responding to his inner contentment. Gradually he worked up to more strenuous forms of exercise, performing a kata of attack, block, defend, parry, attack, bare handed, empty minded. This was meditation. He centred himself through movement, through the easy stretch of muscle and sinew, the resilience of bone.

Breathing evenly, drawing energy through his body, he performed the exercise that was dance macabre, a single note of joy humming in his mind.

Methos was waiting upstairs.

Methos.

This was happiness. Something he hadn't felt since Tessa,not like this, not like this... Maybe it was all the sweeter for being something he had almost thrown away. It had been so close; so terribly close to being destroyed by his own stubbornness, let alone anything else.

They had come through it. And Methos loved him.

He spun and kicked, battling an invisible enemy with joy, hands reaching into the air with a grace such strength belied. Sweat ran freely from his pores, glistening on his skin, taking the perfect body and making of it something unreal, something mythical. His bare feet sounded a rhythmic accompaniment on the boards, the swish of cotton as he moved, the deep breathing. All else was silence.

Until the prickling awareness of another Immortal close by, finally stilled movement into wariness. "Methos?" He looked towards the stairs, then turned, skin prickling with unease, towards high–pitched laughter.

Cassandra.

Standing by the door, she was watching him with dark amusement in her eyes. "Hello Duncan."

Shocked, Duncan blinked at her, at the woman he ought to have known would come, seeing with dismay the wildness in her disordered hair, her dirt of her gown, and the fine sword held so easily in her hand. "Cassandra."

"Didn't you expect me? I told you it was all unfinished."

She was bereft of cosmetics, thin–faced, almost old, her expression quite unsettling. Duncan looked at her, sorrowing for the person he had thought she was, and wondered if there would ever be a possibility of reasoning with such obduracy. "Cassandra, can't you let it go, let Methos be?"

She shook her head slowly, absolute certainty in her eyes. "You must think me very weak, to believe I would do that."

"No, not weak." He took a step towards her, stilling as her blade came up. "Forgiving."

"The same thing."

"Do you want my head as well?"

"No, just his. Tell me, where is the last of the Horsemen, in your bed? You panted after him even when I told you how depraved he was, didn't you. Even after I had slept with you to bind you to me. So much for honour!"

"Cassandra, we could argue over this for hours, but Methos is different, he isn't the man you knew, the same way you aren't the slave girl he taught all about Immortality."

"Methos taught me more than that — he taught me to hate!" She straightened, a certain triumph in her eyes. "And now he will finally die. Is he upstairs?"

Duncan shook his head.

"Listen to me, Duncan, listen to me well..." Cassandra moved forward, still talking, her gaze intent, her voice suddenly deep, sultry, going on and on. The hairs on Macleod's neck shivered on end and he tried to turn, to run, to warn Methos. But her words were a spell winding around his mind, twisting into his thoughts until he could think nothing, was nothing. He heard her laughter and everything turned to darkness.

Cassandra was whispering now, laughing as she wove her voice around the weakness of Macleod, binding him to her, making him her own. When he stood quiescent, only then did she still her tongue.

As if on a chain, she led him through the dojo, walked him up the stairs. Ahead of him, sure of her power Cassandra entered the loft, walking soft–footed into the room. If her heart leapt when she saw the still form in the bed, she showed nothing, merely touched Macleod, making him stand. Reminiscently, she ran her palm across his skin, before pinching hard, to be certain that all his strength was hers. Only then did she turn to the bed.

Methos came out of sleep slowly, feeling Macleod close by. Reaching out a hand he drifted it across the sheet, frowning slightly when he realised the cotton was cold. He rubbed his face against the pillow, he sleepily uncurled, turning onto his back. Only to still absolutely as, unmistakeably, steel came to rest against his throat.

"Good morning, Methos..."

"Cassandra!" Shaken from sleep, he croaked her name, opening his eyes to stare up the length of metal at her exultant face.

"I didn't think it would be this easy." She smiled, leaving no doubt as to her pleasure.

Fear pinched his eyes, and he asked hoarsely, "Where's Macleod?"

"Still alive. Under my command. I won't kill him you know; I only want you dead." She frowned. "For him, it will be punishment enough to live on, when you are dead. Though how he can feel anything but disgust for you..." Her mouth tightened bitterly.

"He'll kill you, if you go through with this." Methos threatened, though his own confidence was hollow.

She merely smiled in derision. "Macleod? He has too many moral scruples; he might hate me, but he wouldn't execute me, not even to avenge you."

"Don't be so certain."

"But I am, remember,I can control Macleod, I have power he has no defense against."

"Cass..." Methos swallowed, his words dead in his mouth as the blade nicked deep into his skin. He arched back into the pillows, the sharp edge following.

"Quiet! You are to die, Horseman, and nothing you can say will change that."

The hilt was held between her two hands, a broadsword, not unlike his own. Except his own was on the couch, wrapped in his coat, though it may as well have been on the moon. Every sense screaming at him, skin itching as sweat beaded through his pores, he lay still, waiting for any opportunity, any moment when he might be able to seize his life from her grasp. She was too close to kick, and too much movement would simply make her task easy. He couldn't even swallow, though he tried to speak.

Intent, she moved slightly, changing her balance. "What, Horseman, don't you want to beg? It would change nothing, but I would find it very sweet to humble you."

He couldn't answer. Wouldn't have anyway. He was beyond fear, beyond anything but a desire to live.

A nerve pulsed by her eye, the skin pulling erratically. Disgust, anger, hatred, all were there in her face as she strengthened her grip on the hilt. "This is for me, Methos..." And she drew back her sword, triumph in her eyes, certain. But at the blade's highest point, Methos flung his pillow in her face.

He scrambled to one side, crying out as the edge of her sword sliced his arm. Suddenly he was free of the bed–clothes, crashing naked to the floor. He caught a glimpse of Macleod, and his gut twisted at the sight of him standing quite still, in glassy eyed oblivion. Methos called out as he stumbled to his feet, "Duncan! Fight her power. Duncan!" There was no response, though Methos was still shouting as he lunged blindly for his sword.

His coat was still there. He pulled it off the couch, fumbling, backing away, then the blade was loose, the leather–bound hilt fitting sure and welcome into his palm. Turning, left–handed he blocked a killing blow. Too close. He couldn't spare any thought for Macleod. Not if he was to survive. "Cassandra, it doesn't have to be like this..."

"Why, Horseman, afraid I might win?"

Another blow parried, he backed away, using the furniture as defense. His right hand just wouldn't work, the wound she had sliced into it cutting deep to the bone. Blood ran fast from his body, dripping from his useless hand to slick the floor at his feet. He knew that if he was to live this had to be finished before too much of his own blood was lost, before she took him down like a huntsman finishing a wounded stag.

She came at him again, laughing; a Fury, her face wild. He managed to block again, ineptly, his sword unbalanced for one–handed fighting, his skill reduced to survival. Snarling, all technique gone, the taste of his death strong in her mouth, she attacked again, great two handed blows that smashed against his sword, rocked though his body. Backed against the wooden table, Methos fought for his life, fought for his life with Macleod. He wasn't going to die. Not now. Not now...

He ducked past Cassandra. She spun about, following, but her feet slid where his blood lay bright on the floor, and for a second she lost her balance. There was a moment, just a moment, and somehow his sword was in her body, twisting into her gut. He looked as surprised as she did, watching blood well around the wound. With a gasp he pulled the blade free, and she fell to her knees, sword clattering to the floor. Methos kicked it away and stood, sword point touching the floor, spent, unable to do anything but breathe in great gulps of air, and stare at a woman he had no desire to kill.

"Methos!"

He turned wildly, then sobbed in relief. "Duncan..." The Highlander was at his side, holding him up, dismay on his face. Methos tried to reach for him, but his right arm still wouldn't work, and his other hand was ferociously gripping the sword. Instead he leant into the offered comfort, and asked weakly, "Are you all right?"

Duncan nodded. "Her hold broke when you wounded her." He touched Methos' arm; it was still dripping blood, though just beginning to heal. Duncan had seen nothing of the fight, but he had no need to, meeting Methos' eyes, he could see all the horror there, quite clear. He spoke very softly, empathy in his eyes, in his touch, in the emotion that roughened his voice, "What about you?"

Methos had no chance to answer. A voice viciously spat a single word. "Bastard..." He jumped, and turned to find Cassandra reaching forward. Bringing the tip of his sword to her neck, Methos shook his head. "No, don't even think about it."

She ignored him, keeping moving, ignoring the pain as metal scored her skin. Duncan quickly was past them both, picking up her sword, backing away with it in his hands. She snarled at him, then turned her hatred back to Methos. "You should have killed me!"

Methos blinked, and shook his head. "Cassandra, why can't you understand, I don't want to. Why does it have to be like this, can't you let the past be?" He was pleading with her, though his sword was at her throat and one move would take her head from her shoulders.

"No. I will never forgive you, Horseman."

"Why?" Methos, pain dark in his eyes, glancing from her to Macleod, tried to strike a bargain. "Cassandra, I will let you live, if you swear never to come after me, or after Macleod."

"Methos, I will kill your friends, I will kill your lover, and then I will kill you." The words spilled out, hot and bitter. All the while her fingers were scoring her arms, long nails digging blood–deep into her own flesh. "Not one will be an easy death, this I swear, in this blood, in this blood which you have spilled, here, where your death should have been mine."

"Cassandra..." Duncan took a step forward, appalled at the viciousness that ripped her own skin.

"What?"

As she turned to look at him, he saw nothing in her eyes, nothing sane. He shook his head in pity, wincing as her nails dug deep; deeper when she realised it disgusted him. "Cassandra, do you really want to die so much?"

For a moment it was as if she didn't understand, then, frowning, she answered. "What makes you say that? I don't want to die at all, I just want him to die!"

"Don't you see, you have to give up on this!"

"Give up?" Outrage widened her eyes, flecks of spittle white around her mouth. She held up her hands, blood and skin black under the nails, then brought them to her face, scoring them down her cheeks in answer.

Shaken, uncertain, quite out of his depth, Duncan looked at Methos.

Cassandra saw the glance, and hatred made her scream, "You love him!" Laughter pealed from her mouth, as if it was all some great joke. "You love him, what a fool! He is a murderer, a torturer, willing catamite to sadist. I loved him once." She blinked as if in pain, doubt momentarily clearing her eyes. "But he betrayed me, gave me to that foul, evil..." Anger was suddenly howling in her face, all reason gone. "How can you bed him at all?"

"Because I love him." Macleod looked over her at Methos bone–white face. "Because of what he is now. Though I might have loved him anyway."

She spat.

"Cassandra!" Shaken by Macleod's words, yet unable to answer them, fearing that she might curse the Scot, Methos drew her attention back to himself, though it felt as sensible as reasoning with the wind. "I spent a thousand years regretting what I had been, regretting almost everything I had done. It took me that long to be able to say I was free of the past — or as free as it is ever possible to be. You thought I was dead for millennia, I was nothing to you, nothing. Why can't you forget me now?"

Kneeling on the floor, Cassandra rocked with laughter. Which suddenly stilled into eerie silence. After a moment she spoke. "Men are such fools. Duncan, you thought I needed your help when I came to you. Each time I used you, used your strength. Fool! Methos, you killed the person I was, your lover killed Donal. Now end it here, or I will come like a Sidhe in the night and rip your eyes from their sockets, your guts from your body and then tear your throat apart. Kill me Methos, and know exactly what it felt like to be your slave!"

Anger was suddenly there in Methos' hollow face. He crouched by her side, his voice strung tight. "Now who's the fool, Cassandra. You think I need lessons in what it was like to be a slave? Do you? Everything I did to you was done to me, and worse, far worse. When you ran from our camp I watched you go, I let you go, even knowing what would happen to me. Because I had to stay, to pacify Kronos, to stop him coming after you." His face twisted, and he took a deep breath, blinking away the memory. His voice was even, though emotion made every word terse, final. "I may regret what I did to you, but the debt is paid."

Cassandra stared at him as he stood up, naked, covered in sweat and gore. For a moment, just a moment, it was as if she believed him, as if reason had found a hold in her distracted mind. Then she spat at his feet. "You're lying!"

He shook his head, patience wearing thin. "You wouldn't recognise truth, Cassandra."

Vicious, she clawed her fist against her own thigh. "Truth? The only truth I need is your death!"

Macleod watched Methos shiver, turn his head away. Pain filled his eyes as he watched emotion tearing Methos apart. Into silence, he spoke quietly, earnestly, certain beyond any doubt that there was only one way out of this. "Methos, you have no choice..."

"What?" Methos head snapped back.

"Look at her."

Wincing, Methos did as he was bid, and saw nothing of the woman he had known as his slave, not even of the woman he had held captive in France. Shaken, he realised exactly what he had done, what insanity he had spawned.

"Methos, take her head, finish it here."

"But..."

Absolutely sure, certain, Duncan took a deep breath, then stepped forward, her sword light and deadly in his hands. "Methos, do it, or I will."

"Duncan!" Methos met his eyes, and the bitterness of the choice was there in his face. "No..."

"Why, d'you think I wouldn't?" He took another step, determined.

"No, I think you would." Misery bled from every inch of Methos' skin. He was pale as a ghost, jaw clenched tight at the thought of Macleod taking her head. It even more appalling than the idea of doing it himself. "No, I can't let you. I started this, I should finish it."

"Then do it."

Methos shuddered, but his sword lifted. He knew she was laughing, knew in his heart she was mad, that if she lived he would never have a moment when he wasn't waiting for her. He breathed in deeply, face twisting in grief, in regret. Then he let the sword fall, cutting swift and sure, taking her head with a single blow.

He had time to meet Duncan's eyes, then the first lick of her quickening caught him.

It was far from easy. Racked by a bolt of lightning Methos cried out, sword dropping from his hand. He arched back, silver darting through his body, tearing a soul–deep scream from his lungs. All at once, the lights fused, and the windows rocked, glass shattering. Crucified by light, Methos spread his arms, every tendon in his body strung tight with tension. As the false storm howled around him, his face twisted in agony and his knees buckled. He fell to the floor heavily, forcing his eyes open to see Macleod backing away, his hands up to protect his face from a shower of sparks. Then every particle in his body convulsed, and pain took away any faint coherency of thought.

When it was done, when the howling light had run its course, Macleod walked back across his ruined loft, and knelt at Methos' side. He was curled on his side, hands pressed around his skull, knuckles white. Duncan hesitantly touched his arm, and felt the fine, invisible tremor that ran deep in his body. "Methos..."

There was a shift of muscles under his hand and somehow Methos relaxed. He uncurled slowly, easing over–strained limbs, lowering his hands. Without another word, Duncan took him into his arms, and held tight: held him for a long time, the silence flowing around them like balm.

After a while he began to gently stroke the sweat–matted hair, until Methos shifted, sitting up, still close, still in contact, and met his eyes. Duncan reached out and cupped his fingers around the long, vulnerable neck, rubbing his thumb across the unmarked skin. "You did the right thing."

"Did I?"

"You would have been looking over your shoulder until you died, as would Joe, anyone else she knew you cared for."

"You."

Duncan nodded. "Me too."

Methos shivered, glancing warily to one side, not really wanting to see her body, but needing to know she was dead. Seeing her body, revulsion, self–disgust, compassion, all flickered at the back of his eyes, before he looked hurriedly away. "What a waste." He wiped his fingers over his face, then asked, "Was she insane?"

"Yes." Duncan nodded, certain.

"Then I made her so."

"No. I think it was being taken by Kronos that pushed her over the edge." Duncan squeezed the curve of Methos' shoulder. "Another crime to lay at his door, not your own."

Methos gave a slight nod of fellow–feeling. "I still wish it hadn't been necessary."

"Another regret, for us both."

"Yes."

Duncan sighed and looked around at the disaster that had been his home. "Come on, let's get cleared up."

"Do you have a place to bury headless bodies, Macleod?" Methos asked caustically. "Or shall we just pretend it was an accident." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Methos blinked, then gave himself a little shake, cross at his own sarcasm. He gave a small shrug of apology. "I'm sorry, her quickening wasn't...pleasant."

Duncan winced understandingly, he'd experienced enough himself to know the difference between some, which could be almost sensual, and this which had been quite cruel. "No."

Methos stared at his hands. He seemed bruised, enervated, but he suddenly looked up at Macleod, head tilted to one side; he was almost smiling. "But we survived." As if abruptly aware of more than the misery of her death, he took a deep, exultant breath.

Macleod smiled. "Yes."

"Right then." Methos was suddenly all energy, he looked around the loft, seeing the destruction caused first by the fight, then by the quickening. "What a mess."

"Yeah." Duncan climbed to his feet, bringing Methos with him. Upright, they surveyed the room, seeing the broken windows, the smashed lights. The bed was ruined again, and a great slice was cut through the back of the couch. Blood was seemingly everywhere, and a dismembered body lay cooling on the floor.

"Do you know any good cleaning companies, Duncan?" Methos asked. "Ones who don't mind a little blood..."

"Nope. This will just be hard work and elbow grease."

"Wonderful!"

"I could tell you were the sort who liked housework!"

Methos made a face. Then all the humour ran from him, and he closed his eyes. "Seriously, what about Cassandra?" His voice stumbled just the once on her name.

Duncan sighed. "I don't know..."

"I'd rather not just dump her in the river — besides, the river authority might object."

A snort of unwilling amusement came from Macleod, then he considered thoughtfully. "When I first met her, she lived in a forest, she loved it there."

Methos closed his eyes, remembering the place he had been taken to in order to die. She had seemed at home there, in the wild. He searched for a memory, in the mass of incoherent images he had taken from her. Amongst the bitterness, the scheming, the howling of a wolf, it was there, a time of peace in a house deep in the woods. "We could take her up to the cabin where they held me, find where she buried Donal, put her in the same place?"

"I think the Cassandra I knew would like that."

"Today?"

"Yeah." Duncan agreed. It needed to be done, to be finished. "Go and get cleaned up, I'll start here."

Methos nodded, but didn't move, watching Macleod.

After a moment, Macleod turned inquiringly. "What's the matter?"

"Did you mean it, when you said you might have loved me, even then?"

Macleod took a sharp breath, then nodded. "Yes. You are you. I may not have liked you, but the rest..." Then he smiled wickedly. "Besides, I'd probably have thought I could reform you!"

"You mean, the love of a good man, and all that sort of thing?"

"Mmm..."

"It might even have worked." There was a certain hollow ring behind Methos words. He shrugged.

"Maybe — now go and get clean." Duncan looked at him, understanding, love, forgiveness, all held in a single glance. "There's lots to do out here."

Methos nodded, then turned away, all of a sudden quite unreasonably happy.

* * * * *

The mountain was unchanged. Macleod parked the Thunderbird in the same place as before, and they walked up the narrow, winding path though the pines to the cabin. Both dressed in warm clothes, thick sweaters, boots, long coats disguising the swords which today neither felt complete without. Too much had happened for complacency. Methos was carrying a shovel, and Macleod a canvas sack, awkward in his arms. It was late in a cold, overcast day, and they were quite alone.

Emerging from the cover of the trees, they walked into the grass–covered clearing, seeing its peace overlaid with the events they had last witnessed there. They had hardly spoken in the car, hardly needed to. Now, Duncan carefully put his burden down by the steps to the cabin's door, and turned to Methos. He was standing alone in the centre of the grass, coat–tails snapping at his heels, looking up at the sky.

Macleod's footsteps were soft on the thin, matted grass. He stood by Methos and touched his arm, waiting until the abstracted face turned. And smiled.

Lifting an arm to pull him close, Methos stepped into Macleod's warmth, kissing his mouth chastely. Then, with a sort of sigh, he stepped away and looked around, gesturing with the hand holding the shovel. He nodded, "I think she'd like it here. She grew up in the desert, I can see why this appealed so much."

There were birds singing in the distance, the air fine and thin, tasting of pine and emptiness. The mountains curved around them, holding the clearing secure in its isolation. Duncan remembered the Donan woods, where he had first met a woman they called a witch, and knew that Methos was right. Cassandra had been happy somewhere like this, maybe that would help her find some measure of peace.

"You know, when I first met her, I was just a boy. She was this beautiful, mysterious woman, who lived alone in what I imagined was an enchanted forest." He smiled self–consciously at his young self. "The entire village was afraid of her, thought she was a witch, a shape–changer. I knew her for only a week or so, then she was gone, disappeared, and I next saw her only a year or so back. I never really knew her."

"I did, I knew a woman a long time ago. This wasn't Cassandra. I wish..." Methos shook his head. "If Kronos hadn't found me, and through me her..."

"He found you because of me."

Methos looked disbelieving. "How d'you manage to work that one out?"

"Because, Methos, you were hiding as Adam Pierson, before my affairs forced you away from the Watchers."

"Oh." Then Methos shrugged as if it was a matter of no value. "I would have had to be myself eventually. He would have found me sooner or later, if we both lived long enough."

"But..."

"No, Duncan. No recriminations. Okay, so maybe Kronos found me sooner than he might have done, but just because of that, you're going to try and take the blame for Cassandra's death? Come off it!"

"I should have seen she was becoming unhinged..."

"Yeah, yeah! And maybe you should have just killed me and been done with it. See? There are many ways to view this. Black and white only exist in your peculiar morality, Macleod; most of us walk through a world made up of shades of gray. I regret her death, but I didn't create all the circumstances that made it necessary. I took her head, and I will live with that regret for the rest of my life, but I'm not going to beat myself over it. It happened. Life happens." He gestured expansively with his hands, his long fingers eloquent of complete fatalism.

"Yeah, like Kronos just happened."

"Macleod, you are becoming more cynical than I ever thought possible."

"It must be rubbing off of you." Duncan gave a wry laugh. "Come on, let's get this hole dug before we're here all night.

"Yeah." Methos looked around them. "I wonder where she put Donal."

"Well, his grave should be easy enough to spot..."

"True. Did you look inside the cabin?"

"No."

"We'd better, just in case we're looking for something that doesn't exist."

Duncan grimaced at the thought, then turned and walked with Methos back across the grass.

Leaving the shovel outside, Methos walked slowly up the creaking wooden stairs, and twisted the door handle. It turned, and the door swung open. The inside of the wooden building was a sparsely furnished. Methos looked around, seeing most of it for the first time. He did peer down into the cellar, but let Macleod do the searching, his own private memories of such bleak despair, far too near the surface for comfort.

In the kitchen he found food enough for many weeks, and stacked around was firewood, books, and bags of clothing. He began to search for any document with a name, true or false, ready to take away. He picked up a bag at random, putting it on the only table, opening it to find the silks and velvets that Cassandra had seemed to favour. Something rattled in the bottom of the bag, and he rummaged, until his fingers met metal. Curious, he pulled whatever it was free.

Macleod came up from the cellar, shaking his head. "Nothing there."

Silence was his answer, then a distracted, "Good..."

"What's that?" Macleod peered over Methos shoulder, seeing a necklace made in some barbaric style.

"Cassandra's."

"Well, she liked that sort of thing."

"Mmm, except this one is very old. And I gave it her." Turning his head, Methos met Macleod's eyes. "She kept it..."

Duncan looked at the patterned bronze, then quickly up at Methos face. "That could have been for all sorts of reasons."

"Yes." Methos nodded. "She kept this, Kronos kept the dagger she killed him with, the night she escaped, and I kept nothing. Unless you count memories as a memento."

"Methos, from what I know of your memories, they are hardly a keepsake!"

"Very true." Methos let the bronze fall from his fingers, letting it disappear back into the untidy folds of velvet. He straightened, shoulders smoothing

"You could take it with you?" Duncan asked.

Methos shook his head. "No." He swallowed visibly, then turned away, heading for the door. "We'd better find this bloody grave."

Macleod watched him go, the door bouncing on its hinges as he almost ran outside. Then he followed.

Duncan caught up with him just behind the back wall of the cabin. He was stripping off his coat, just by a freshly dug grave.

He looked across as Macleod appeared around the corner of the building. "What do you think, put her in with him?"

"Yes. The less this is all disturbed the better. I'll dig..."

"No. I'll do it." And without further ado, Methos slammed the shovel into the earth.

So recently dug, the ground was easy work. Methos was knee deep very quickly, his body working with contained efficiency. Duncan made some comment about Cassandra's practicality in digging so deep, but was completely ignored. So instead, he watched and waited, wandering around, knowing that the work was catharsis, hoping it would be enough.

Another foot or so down, and Methos grunted, metal hitting a resistance other than earth. Another ten minutes to clear the rest of the grave, and he straightened, finally wiping sweat out of his eyes with one pushed–up sleeve.

Macleod walked to the edge of the pit and looked at him. "Better?"

A nod in answer, then a reluctant smile. "Much." Tossing the shovel onto the grass, Methos put his hands on the side, and vaulted clear. He straightened, wincing as his back protested. "Right, do you want to get her?"

Macleod nodded, gave another glance to Methos, and went to fetch the body.

They laid her in the earth free of the protective sacking, arranging the body as if she slept. Climbing free of the grave, they paused to stare down at her, then Macleod reached for the shovel. But Methos suddenly shook his head. "Wait a moment..." And he was off, sprinting around the side of the building, leaving Macleod turning in surprise.

He was back almost immediately, dull metal dark in his hand. He looked at Duncan and gave a wry twist of his mouth. "I thought she should have it."

Macleod nodded. "Yes, she would probably have wanted some sort of grave goods."

"That's why I brought this." Methos bent down by his own coat, and pulled free a sword that was not his own.

"Cassandra's." Duncan watched as Methos held the blade to the light, saluting the sky.

The he turned away, answering with a wordless agreement, and lightly slipped back into the open grave. Very carefully, he placed the sword on her body, awkwardly wrapping her hands around the hilt. The necklace he draped across the wound that had been her neck. As he stood, he shuddered, then, face quite wiped clean of emotion, climbed back up to Macleod. "You can cover her now."

"No words?"

"No. I know none that she would understand."

Macleod nodded, then taking the shovel firmly in both hands, slowly returned the earth to its home.

* * * * *

It was almost dark when they went slowly made their way back to the car. Methos let Macleod open the trunk, then they tossed inside everything they were carrying: shovel; a bag of papers; Donal's sword, which they'd found, all the bags of personal possessions. Weary to the bone, he went and sat in the passenger seat, waiting, mind almost wiped clear of thought as Duncan slid behind the wheel and turned on the engine.

Macleod drove at a steady pace back to the city, leaving the mountains behind them until the skyline swallowed them up. Neither man said anything for a long while. In fact Methos was so distracted, he almost jumped when Macleod finally spoke to him.

"Methos?"

"Mmm..."

"I've been thinking."

Methos came close to smiling. "Why do I think that might be a bad thing, Duncan?"

"Seriously."

"Very well then, seriously, you have been thinking."

Duncan gave him a sour look but went on. "I realise this is probably a very stupid question, but have you ever been to Scotland?"

"A long time ago, why?"

"I thought we could get out of the city for a while, out of this country altogether, and, well, I bought a place near the Kyle of Lochalsh. It needs doing up," he ignored Methos' groan. "But it is isolated, and I thought, maybe, we could spend some time alone there."

Methos turned so he could face him. He didn't exactly look suspicious, but... "Back to your homeland?"

"Yes."

"Nothing to do with that Scots lass who I brought to France when you needed the Macleod sword?"

"Methos! For goodness sake, I liked her, but she isn't you." He gave a sudden grin. "Fancy you getting jealous!"

"Me?" Methos mimed outrage, then sighed in resignation. "Too right, didn't I mention that particular character flaw?"

"No, probably left it for me to find out about all on my own..."

"Oh, yeah, I remember." Methos snorted in amusement, then began to look interested. "Scotland, eh? It'll be bloody cold."

"We can wrap up. And I'm sure there'll be all sorts of inventive ways to keep warm."

"That's true." Methos nodded speculatively. "We could tell Joe where we are, and he can pass the word to any of your friends — I suppose this place has a telephone?"

Macleod made a face. "Not exactly..."

"Hot water?"

"Well..." Macleod almost squirmed.

"A bathroom?"

"Yes, three!"

"Finally, some good news..." Methos sighed. "What about books?"

"We can buy some in Glasgow, before we drive up."

"I tell you what I know it will have."

Duncan blinked, and asked, "What's that?"

"You." Methos grinned. "As for everything else, I know you get bored easily, so having some work to do should keep you happy."

"I was hoping that you might be going to do that!"

Methos' grin slid into a look of utter lasciviousness. "oh, I expect I can manage that. In between catching up on my reading."

"If I have my way, you'll be lucky to get any reading done at all."

"Duncan, I'll have plenty of time, because I tell you this, I am not staying long in a place without hot water. So that gets sorted out first."

In tones that implied his arm was being severely twisted, Duncan agreed. "Okay. But I though we could stay in a hotel for the first couple of weeks, get someone in to sort out the plumbing, the really dirty stuff."

"A hotel! Why didn't you say so." He settled back in his seat. "I like hotels, as long as they're good ones."

Duncan heard the doubt and looked smug. "You'll like it, I promise you that."

"Good, Scotland it is." Methos stared out at the city as it flashed by. "We could always take a trip to Orkney."

"Sure. But why?"

"I've always meant to go there, since I saw some pictures of Skara Brae in a magazine."

"I didn't think you liked bleak."

"When I can escape to a nice warm, heated room, sure, I like bleak."

"Well, you'll get it there. You said once you came from the North, was it anywhere near there?"

"Is there anywhere near there?" Methos grinned, then sobered immediately. "I don't know. But I want to go there and find out, you never know, I might recognise something."

"The only things on Orkney are sheep and stones..."

Methos shrugged. "Even so, if we're up that way, I'd like to go."

"Whatever you want."

Methos smiled, warmth crinkling his eyes as he looked at Macleod. "Thanks. When do you want to leave?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Fine by me, there's nothing much I can't buy when we get there. What shall we do, go and see Joe tonight, tell him?"

"Yeah. You never know, he might want to come out and visit."

"Are you going to ask him, or shall I?"

"I thought you might." Macleod pulled the car into a space by the dojo, and switched off the engine. "Though I think we should make him wait until the guest room has a roof on it." He opened the door, and stepped out, sharpish.

"Macleod!" Methos was after him, fast on his feet. "What state exactly is this place in?"

"Well, it is a bit run down..."

"It's a ruin, isn't it. I've just agreed to winter in a Scottish ruin!"

Duncan opened the door and stepped inside, pulling Methos in after him, taking him into a warm embrace. "A hotel first, I did say that..."

"You did..." Breathless, Methos looked into Macleod's eyes and knew himself idiot enough to agree to sleeping outside, if that was what Macleod wanted. Not that he told the other man that, just in case.

They stood very close, for a moment lost in the idea of a future. Their future. The fact that despite everything, they still had one to contemplate. That in itself was more than enough. More than either of them had dared to dream about until now.

Methos found a smile, which deepened when Macleod answered it. "Let's go and find passports and stuff."

"Mmm. And book a hotel for tonight..."

"Duncan, your voice can be terribly suggestive sometimes, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Maybe."

"It wonder if it is the accent, you don't always have it, but when it is there..." He shivered slightly. "What was that you said about a hotel?"

 

END


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